


undercover

by allusan



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fuck the CW, HAPPY ENDING like we deserve, Minor Original Character(s), No Lesbians Die, Project Cadmus, Sanvers - Freeform, Witness Protection, idk i just miss my lesbians, it gets better as u go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-12-27 04:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12073125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allusan/pseuds/allusan
Summary: when alex's safety is threatened, she is forced to assume a new identity. cut off from her work and the people she loves, she is faced with questions she's avoided for years.(gay questions)sanvers au(you're gonna need to bear with me on this one & suspend your disbelief a little bit -- it is set in national city still and her appearance has not changed, even though from an actual real life witness protection standpoint that is ridiculous and almost pointless. also i've written this over a six month period so the first chapters suck a little bit, pls be patient)





	1. Chapter 1

_Ca-clunk, ca-clunk_... the wheels of Alex's final suitcase roll noisily over the seams of tacky hallway carpet, approaching a door marked 2308. As she fumbles through the numerous keys attached to the ring on her belt loop she steadies precariously-balanced bags and boxes with her knees, and turns the lock in just enough time to catch a falling coffee mug with her free hand.

"Nice one, Danv-" Falling silent mid-sentence she frantically scans the area to make sure she hadn't just blown her cover in the first 20 minutes.

Thankfully, it's all clear; with a new caution in her demeanor, she enters her new home, pleasantly surprised by its spacious front room and plush furniture. Witness Protection had already set everything up for her arrival, so there was little distress in her moving day – excluding the obvious distress, that is. A deep sigh falls from her lips as she slumps down on the couch. She allots five minutes for self-indulgent wallowing.

Later that night she decides to go for a ride. Her conditions were few - beggars can't be choosers, particularly in matters of life and death - but she _insisted_ on a motorcycle. Leather hugs her torso as she braces the evening chill, zipping up her jacket while she walks to the beloved bike. She pulls out of its parking space and immediately feels more like herself, the irony of which is painfully clear to her; she snickers to no one in particular, her dry amusement lost in the wind. She wears full-fingered gloves to avoid leaving prints, but a long overdue feeling of peace falls upon her as she hits the freeway.

\--

Crumbs and empty wrappers cover what little of the couch is not taken up by her slumped, defeated figure. Chips, toast, and stale peanut butter cookies form a miserable medley between the cushions; Alex just sighs, stands, and watches them settle evenly as pillows take back their shape. She dusts herself clean too and heads for the door, as the novelty of her newfound 9-to-5 freedom had worn off shortly before ten o'clock. Deeming it still too early to hit the bar, she grabs her key and heads to the stairwell. She could recall being told her apartment is two floors from the top and, given she has no balcony, decides to check out the roof.

Cold air swirls her wavy auburn bob across her face, pulling a few strands out of its boredom-induced French braid and clouding her vision. She spits and chaotically swipes at her skin in an attempt to clear her field of view as her eyes adjust to the winter sun. A modest, sheltered patio spans the width of the space, with a stone path curling throughout and into a small garden to her right. She could identify few of the plants that remain from the previous summer's presumably plentiful harvest, though any growth in the chilly, overcast climate is impressive; her first few steps reveal an unobstructed view of National City, comparable only to the bird's-eye angles Kara provided in their youth. Though somewhat depressing this time of year, the landscape causes a hitch in Alex's breath as she takes it in.

She thinks about smoking a cigarette but decides against it. She'd quit the habit when J'onn recruited her to the DEO, and still misses it in her weaker moments – she settles instead for a squished ginger candy from the bottom of her pocket, letting the harsh bitterness quench her craving. Her attention draws to goosebumps forming on her skin, the veins in her hands contracting to conserve as much heat as they can, and she relishes the stinging cold against her face. Lost in the moment, Alex misses the sound of footsteps on metal and screeching hinges, opening her eyes only when the door clicks shut.

"Need a light?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (i've already written the first twelve chapters of this and the chapters are so short because they alternate between alex/maggie's POV - the writing gets a little better as we go ok, please bear with me)

"I am not in a slump. Shut up," asserts Maggie, trying to convince herself as much as she is her older cousin.

"I'm just saying, you spend too much time with me, you should be going on dates!" His tone conveys exasperation, despite his gentle intentions.

"Oh, please. You love me. We're Margaret and Mackenzie. Sawyers against the world, remember? I should punch you in the tit."

"I don't have any, that's precisely my point. Go find some tits to punch, and never speak that name in my house again; it's  _Mac,_ " cries Mackenzie, sensitive about the femininity of his name, "here's your jacket."

Maggie takes it from him, kisses his cheek playfully, and heads for the door. As she walks away she thanks him for breakfast, a Tuesday tradition they'd kept up through his marriage and first child, and loosely ties her hair back to fit under her motorcycle helmet. She thinks about what he said – is she really in a slump? She'd been focused more on work lately and hadn't been out much, but that was of her own volition. Besides, women don't exactly swoon for the science-y space talk that had crept its way into her everyday vocabulary. She pushes these thoughts from her head and rides to work, stopping halfway to get coffee from the vendor by her building.

Without any pressing matters around the precinct, Maggie finds herself idly pondering her cousin's advice at her desk. If she's honest, Maggie misses being in a relationship – the idea of being on the same wavelength as someone, having a partner in something other than fighting crime, makes her heart flutter. She would never own up to such soft longing, the innocent 'white picket fence' aspirations buried deep beneath her stolid exterior, but she abashedly dreams of domesticity and suburban satisfaction.

The trance is broken when a thick stack of paper flops onto her desk. McConnell doesn't say a word, and Maggie gets started on the paperwork from her last case, a high-profile home robbery by a Roltikkan within her jurisdiction. Grateful for the distraction, she immerses herself fully until she is the last remaining day-shift officer in the room. She and her later counterpart are on cordial terms, with little interaction beyond taciturn greetings and seasonal well-wishes, and this encounter is no exception; Maggie collects her things and, with a curt nod, vacates the space for the superseding crew. Unsure of where to go with the confidential case files, she finds a manila folder and shoves them in her bag. This wouldn't be her first time sneaking around with overtime tasks, and her superiors don't seem to mind when they come back solved; the break room seems as good a place as any to execute the formalities – arrest report, evidence filing codes, et cetera – and the work is done within twenty minutes.

Upon her return home, Maggie opens a juice box and downs it while leftover takeout swirls in the microwave. The orange juice leaves a coat of aftertaste on her teeth and she pulls a piece of pulp out from between them loudly with her tongue. She sinks into the worn leather recliner in the front room, a paper plate of rice and chicken in her lap, and peruses Netflix for suitable dinner entertainment. The juxtaposition of her otherwise elegant décor and the pseudo-adulthood she exhibits on her sofa chair makes her chuckle, amused and somewhat disheartened by how exactly she proves her cousin's point. Perhaps it is time for her to widen her perspective, to build a life outside her precinct...  _eh, maybe tomorrow_.

 

Before she knows it, tomorrow comes; Maggie wakes up to bright sun pouring in the floor-to-ceiling windows, having fallen asleep in her Comfy Chair. Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, loudly vibrating against the glass, and she answers on the fourth ring.

"Sawyer."

"Yeah, gimme a damn minute..." her boss reprimands an anonymous third party, his attention clearly divided, "sorry, Maggie, some shithead on night shift couldn't wait for his breakfast burrito, the toaster oven caught fire. Everyone with open cases are being transferred to the 49 until further notice, and you don't have any today, so... knock yourself out. Stay in town, though, I'll call you if I need you."

"Yes, sir." Maggie hangs up the phone and groans lazily, extending her limbs as far as she could to stretch the sleep out of them. The kitchen clock reads 9:58; too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, she prepares a cup of coffee and settles for a squished granola bar. Suddenly chilled, she remembers taking off her jeans and bra shortly before succumbing to sleep, and looks down to find only a flowy, undone button down covering her olive skin. With a shiver she darts toward the short staircase which leads to her loft, picking a pair of sweatpants and an old rugby shirt from the closet hidden beneath the steps. When the Keurig machine beeps, she pours her black coffee into a travel mug and pulls a beanie over her bedhead for a rooftop 'brunch.'

The door to the stairwell creaks shut behind her as she ascends the 3 flights, skipping every other step with a hop to accommodate what her legs lack in length. She hears the door slam up ahead and slows down some, not wanting to show up panting to whomever she'd be joining on the terrace; her dilated pupils ache when harsh sun hits her, and she shields her face to allow their comfortable adjustment.

"Need a light?"

Maggie hears a familiar voice and turns toward it, registering a tall blonde facing in the same direction. She opens her mouth to respond that no, she's good, thanks, when she notices the auburn-haired woman standing by the ledge who had turned abruptly towards them.

"No, I don't, uh – I don't smoke, anymore. Th-thank you, though." Her discomfort is palpable and would have been endearing to Maggie if she didn't so resent its perceived insincerity. The nervous girl's attention settles past the blonde's frame and upon Maggie, which causes the middle woman to turn, the revolt on her face appearing almost instantly.

"Maggie?" Piercing grey eyes meet her dark hazel gaze and she immediately recognizes her ex-girlfriend. Maggie's squint further narrows and she raises an eyebrow, turning on her heel to leave as quickly as she'd come. She throws the door open and lets it swing shut on its own, indifferent to the woman's cries.

"Is that my fucking sweater?"


	3. Chapter 3

"So... you two know each other," Alex timidly questions, and earns a laugh from her crass acquaintance.

"Well, I sure thought I did... that's my ex, Maggie. We broke up months ago, I live in the apartment across from hers; I'm actually moving this week, though. Anyway, she's still bitter, and apparently kept my favourite rugby shirt. I played in college." She rolls her eyes and continues, "I'm Benet, by the way. Call me Ben."

"Ben, nice to know you and then meet you, in that order."

"Hey, nice reference! You watch Community?" Ben laughs and her eyes sparkle, clearly charmed by Alex's dry wit. She lights a cigarette and gives it a pull, exhaling in the opposite direction to spare Alex the fumes, "So, what's your deal? What brings you to the peak of National City's finest 'scraper on a Wednesday morning?"

"Well, I-"

"You're not one of those freelance art people, are you?  _Finding yourself in the canvas, exploring the vast complexity of film photography,_   _slave to your craft,_ " Ben muses, mocking what seems to be a particular experience in her past, "I won't get invited to some underground peacock sacrifice in an indie bar along the interstate, will I?"

"That is... specific. Well, no, I'm a student, actually."  _Just like you rehearsed, Danvers_ , "I'm headed into my fifth year on this psych thesis. I'm conducting a study in the city."

"Tight! So you deal with, like,  _freaks_  and stuff?"

"You could say that, yeah." Alex grins, pleased with her sale of the detailed lie, and leans back against a shed by the edge of the building, "I'm Cass."

Know the feeling of being so embarrassed that everything becomes unbearably infuriating? This is what Alex feels now about the name  _Cassandra_. Toward J'onn for picking it, at her aggressors for making it necessary, at the federal government for not having better options, at herself for getting caught, at Kara for having powers, at Benet for asking, at Maggie for sparking their conversation (and keeping the shirt, how petty is that? Those are expensive!) She buries her irrational rage, to be released at a later date, and brings her focus back to the woman tapping her cigarette over the ashtray.

" _Cass_. It suits you."

Alex smiles. Suddenly uncomfortable with the intensity of Benet's fully focused gaze, she changes the subject, "So... Maggie. You two are..."

"Gay? Yeah. Well, she is, I'm pansexual." Sensing and expecting Alex's confusion, Ben continues, "I'm attracted to  _people_ , regardless of gender. Hearts not parts."

"Oh, cool."

"Super cool. She disagrees, though: after we broke up I started dating a guy at my work, and she flipped. Lesbians, so sensitive." Alex chuckles awkwardly, unsure of how to respond but not wanting to alienate her new friend. One corner of Ben's mouth curves into a smirk as she waves her cigarette in the air, making a dismissive motion with her hand, and she brings it back in for another pull. "Anymore, huh?"

"What?"

"When I asked if you needed a light, you said 'I don't smoke  _anymore_.'"

"Oh, um, yeah, I quit a few years ago."

"You don't look old enough to have both started and quit smoking."

"We don't all start legally," replies Alex, with a wry wink. Ben, impressed, raises an eyebrow and her cigarette in a 'cheers'-like motion, "besides, I skipped a grade."

Alex wouldn't realize until later that she'd just divulged a piece of real information; thankfully not specific enough to raise suspicion, but still a habit she'd have to watch. Her new friend, nearing the end of her smoke break, pulls a pen out of her pocket and reaches for Alex's forearm. Eyes locked, Ben draws the sleeve of Alex's thermal shirt up just short of her elbow and scribbles ten digits on her skin, covering it with the fabric when she's finished.

"If you should find yourself near apartment 2209 in the next two days, gimme a shout. I've been told I'm psychotic, you could call it research," Ben teases, and returns Alex's earlier wink, "and I'm moving in with Stephen, the guy from work I was talking about, so no, I'm not flirting with you. I know you were wondering. Straight girls are exhausting too."

"See you around, Ben."

\--

Alex steps out of the bathroom humming the final notes of Bohemian Rhapsody – her go-to shower song – and realizes in a panicked frenzy that she just washed off Benet's phone number. She looks down at her towel and its new smudged ink stain, and sighs exasperatedly. She could see a faint '3' and a few 6s, but the rest is completely gone. Cursing the sky, she throws her hair into a tight ponytail and watches most of it fall back out to frame her face, before getting dressed and ready.

It is 2 pm by the time she knocks on Benet's door, and she is left standing there for a few minutes without any discernible sign of life. She pulls back to check the number, 2210, and quickly realizes her mistake; she dashes across the hall to Benet's correct address, tucking inside the door as soon as it opens.

"Hey there, stranger." Ben turns to face Alex, surprised and amused by her sudden entrance.

"I knocked on the wrong door," she explains, panting slightly as she laughs at herself, "2210 isn't Maggie's, is it?"

"2208, you're safe."

The apartment door closes, and Alex snaps to attention when she remembers that her arrival is still unsolicited, "I'm an idiot. I took a shower and your number washed off. My mom used to say 'it's a good thing you're pretty, you're not very smart...'"

Her mother, doctor and scientist Elizabeth Danvers, had said no such thing – especially not to scientist and government agent Alexandra Danvers, of course – but Alex figures the fake personal details add a nice touch.

"Psychology thesis ought to prove her wrong, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess." Alex chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck to really sell the false modesty. Ben walks over with an outstretched hand and Alex places her government-issued iPhone 5s into it, watching closely as she adds her contact information.

"I put my Snapchat in too, for good measure. I'm pretty hilarious on there."

"Got it, thanks." Alex surveys the room, most of the floor space covered by half-filled moving boxes, and offers her assistance. "I just moved in, so it's not like you're keeping me from anything good; all I've got ahead of me today is a stack of IKEA furniture."

Ben looks her up and down, presumably assessing her fitness for the manually laborious task, and Alex rolls up the sleeves of her tight quarter-zip. All doubt is washed from Ben's mind as she watches her triceps ripple through the fabric, flexing when Alex effortlessly lifts a wooden chair.

"If you insist."

\--

Social media numbs her brain. This usually is cause to avoid it, keeping up with friends' baby names and birthdays an irresponsible distraction when extraterrestrial life jeopardizes public order, but is just what Alex needs right now to keep her thoughts quiet. She navigates Twitter, though it's incredibly boring without Kara's new-to-earth musings or James' latest captures. A CATCO article comes up in her 'Moments' page and she immediately logs off, complete disconnection a lesser agony than bits and pieces that can't come together. Snapchat offers a fresh perspective and Alex sends a picture of her frozen dinner, with the caption "la- _sog_ -na, am i right ??? :-P" to user BenetLikeBeckham42. Within minutes Ben replies, a snap featuring her head in the bottom right corner with stacked cardboard towering above her, captioned "that pun would have killed me if these boxes hadn't already." 

Alex snorts loudly and shoots off a witty response, genuinely happy for the first time in a couple days. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the song if you want to listen https://youtu.be/fyN4zMOzYXM?t=14s

"I beg you hear my call, good lady!" Maggie ~~sings~~  screams along to her blaring speaker, both oblivious and indifferent to her neighbours' interests. On a recent trip to New York she'd had to chaperone a few aliens with  _great_  taste in music, the mix album  _35mm_  among her favourite new discoveries. Ben Crawford's technically-sound yet growly rock song serenades her as she dresses for the day, banging her head with the drums. She'd woken up with an unexpected burst of energy, and decided to ride that wave as long as she could. The past few days at work had been painstakingly slow, but she remains hopeful that with the weekend will come violence and chaos.

"...all that keeps me from my torment, so if you hear my plea, won't you-" The music cuts off abruptly as Maggie falls to the kitchen floor, her left foot tangled in both the AUX cord and her work pants. She hops back up, unfazed, and brushes her hair into a low ponytail while she hums the remaining chorus.

\--

Her prediction proves correct as she leads two unruly creatures through the precinct. At only 21:30, the Friday night is young, and yields great promise; havoc is abundant and rich in her neighbourhood, with a high concentration of aliens to wreak it. She heads home on her motorcycle a few hours later, once her arrests were processed and in holding. The echo of her engine rumbles to a stop inside the basement garage, and she too rumbles – with anger, that is, at the Ducati neatly parked in her space. She looks across the car park and sees the space for 2308 empty; her upstairs neighbour Mitchell was prone to such thoughtless misplacement, but she didn't know he had such a nice bike.

Maggie bangs on the door three times, alerting its occupants of her urgent presence. She began to talk before the door had even opened all the way, eager to say her piece.

"Mitch, I swear to god if you leave your shit in my space one more time I'm gonna –"

The doe-eyed woman staring back at her is many things, but 'her good pal Mitchell' is not one of them.

"Oh. Um, there's a bike in my space?" Maggie recovers swiftly from her presumption, "I think it's–"

"'Mitch'?"

"Mitchell's, yeah. Anyway, is he around?"

"No, I just moved in, sorry. I might be the one you're looking for, though, is it a Ducati? I'm really sorry, I'm still getting used to things. I mean, I barely made my way to the roof the other day," she says, visibly uncomfortable, rushing around behind the door to get her keys. Maggie is confused by the specific example, but follows her into the elevator, helmet in hand.

"You ride too?"

"Yup."

"What model?"

"Triumph Bonneville T100."

"Cool. I, uh, I used to ride a Triumph, but this monster won me over."

They stand in silence, the shrill  _ding_  of the elevator cutting in 23 times before announcing their arrival. Maggie gets out to the bikes first, revving her own engine as the space is made free. The woman rides a few rows away, and stops to carefully read the painted number before shutting off her bike.

"Sorry, again. For what it's worth, that's a pretty sweet ride you've good there."

"Thanks, yours too. Oh, I'm – "

"Maggie, right?"

Maggie's outstretched hand freezes perpendicular to her body as she pauses her introduction, glaring at the woman. "How do you know my name?"

"Um, uh, the roof? On Wednesday? Ben – um, Benet scared you off," she stutters, laughing slightly to lighten the mood, "Sorry, I mentioned it earlier, I thought you recognized me. I'm Al – Cass." Alex coolly catches her mistake and suppresses panic, nonchalantly playing it off.

"...Al-Cass?"

"Um, yeah." She clears her throat, "My parents smoked a lot of weed; you can call me Cass, though. Or just C. Call me what you want, just uh, don't call me late for dinner..."

Maggie tilts her head, eyeing the woman with a smirk. "...Okay then, Just C."

Alex's cheeks blush crimson and Maggie turns to leave.

"Oh, and I don't know what Ben told you, but you can let her know I'm keeping the shirt until she gives me what  _I_  want." She doesn't turn back, just calls smugly over her shoulder as she saunters off.

"Um... okay? Uh, nice to meet you! Sorry, again, for the... yeah."

_Nice one, Danvers._


	5. Chapter 5

Alex is losing her mind. It's been six days since she's worked a case, and she's going stir crazy with an empty to-do list. Today she's already cleaned her apartment, washed and folded laundry, consolidated stray documents into folders and sub-folders on her laptop, run three miles, showered, filed her taxes, vacuumed the communal hallway, fueled an hour long hypochondriac spiral on WebMD, and learned beginner's French horn to enrich her alibi. She stands now at the kitchen counter, cooking an elaborate feast with an open bottle of wine. Suddenly unable to stand the mind-numbing task, she calls Benet.

"Cass, my girl! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I'm  _so_  bored, I want to punch something. Are you around?"

"Not if you want to punch me!"

"No, that's not what I meant, I -"

"Relax, I'm just kidding. I'm closing tonight so I'll be at the bar another few hours... It's pretty depressing on a Monday night, but you're welcome to join."

"Thank  _God._ Be there in 20."

"Damn. I'll mix you something strong."

Alex hangs up the phone and trades her grungy overalls for a pair of black jeans and a v-neck. Sweat glistens on her neck and collarbone and she wipes her face with a damp rag, perspiring still from the day of mindless puttering, before she sets the slow-cooker to go off upon her return. She walks swiftly to the small pub downtown, where a door chime sounds her arrival.

Hunchbacked men line the bar counter, nursing beers of various volumes, and Benet's back is turned while she serves a customer. Alex slides into a booth in her field of view and takes in the venue's ambiance: tinny speakers playing instrumental jazz, the musty smell, and her heightened awareness of its patrons' movements most notable in her initial scan of the room.

"You made it," Ben calls from behind the counter, waving a cloth in her direction. Alex smiles and shrugs both shoulders, "As promised, let me get you a scotch and soda. My treat."

"I can't say no to a free drink... On the rocks, please. Plenty of rocks."

"Coming right up." She mixes the drink, one for herself as well, and brings them to the booth, "I should've cut these guys off an hour ago, and they won't tell my boss I'm drinking on the job if they know what's good for 'em."

"Cheers to that," replies Alex, and clinks their glasses before taking a big sip from her own.

"What've you been doing all day?"

"Bouncing off the walls, mostly," Alex chuckles dryly, watching the ice cubes swirl around in the cup before raising it to her lips again, "cleaning, cooking, freaking out – I feel like an unfulfilled housewife. Except, y'know, lonely."

"When was the last time you got laid?"

Alex choked on her drink. "Excuse me?"

"When did you last, uh, ride the train to paradise? Canoodle? Engage in sexual intercourse?"

"Well, um, it's been... a while, I guess. A long time. Numerous... years..." Alex trails off, uncomfortable disclosing her sexual inexperience.

"Oh come on, you're kidding."

Ben stares at her, the realization dawning on her moments too late.

"Oh... you're not kidding, huh.  _Really?_  If a girl like you can't drop her V-card before grad school I fear for this overworked generation. I mean, it's totally a personal choice, I respect it," Ben backpedals, wary of offending her new friend, "I'm just... surprised, I guess. You're a rare breed."

"I'm just...  _really_  focused on work. Like, my thesis. The whole  _sex, drugs, rock n' roll_   thing isn't really my scene."

"I admire that. I mean, my advice was gonna be that an earth-shattering orgasm usually does the trick, but you do you."

"I'll figure it out."

Alex hoped Ben would pick up her sexual reference (and see that she's not a total prude), but it went over her head. It was due time for a subject change anyway, so Alex steered the conversation.

"Anyway, what's up with you? How's the new place?"

"Well the furnace is busted, but other than that, can't complain... The neighbours are friendly. One of them brought us cookies, so he's our new favourite."

"Aw, nice!" Alex smiles, "Hey, speaking of, I ran into your old favourite in the parking garage the other day. Maggie says you have something she wants, so I guess she's keeping the shirt as collateral... I figured I'd let you handle that hostage negotiation, I'm just the messenger."

Benet scoffs, sticking out her tongue with distaste, "She sucks sometimes."

Alex just smirks, as she is in no position to slander her neighbours.

"What happened between you two? Just curious, I don't mean to pry."

Visibly at a crossroads in her mind, Ben chugs her drink and decides to trust her friend Cass with this deeper level of personal knowledge. She explains the passion and big personalities they both exhibited, which brought them together in the first place – constant witty banter, intense drive, perpetual need to be right – and how it contributed to their demise. "Everything we did was explosive. After a while the thrill just died out, I got tired... it was like I had met my intellectual match, but it wore us both down. It wasn't healthy. I still loved her... hell, a part of me always will... I just believed we were better off as friends, and she disagreed, so after that fight we stopped talking."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Pretty lousy. I mean, one day everything's normal, you're sharing your life, and the next day... it's all gone. I'd come to count on it, y'know? I didn't have that support anymore, I felt...  _completely_  alone."

 

"Yeah, I... I know the feeling," Alex replies.


	6. Chapter 6

"What do we got?" Maggie struts onto the crime scene and snaps a latex glove over her right hand to inspect the evidence.

"Looks like an open and shut case, another Hellgrammite targeting chemists. We're told he was looking for DDT, Supergirl came in and knocked the guy senseless... we're here on clean up, mostly," a uniform officer bitterly explains, "where would we local cops be without the almighty vigilante?"

"Damn, thought I escaped that rookie heroism coming from Metropolis," muses the resentful detective, as she places a bloodied thorn into a plastic bag and seals it, "Thanks, Milton. Send this to labs, can't hurt to know what we're up against."

"On it, Detective Sawyer."

A blur of red flashes in her peripheral vision and she whips around, in time to watch the infamous case-stealing alien fly between two skyscrapers and hover at the window of Maggie's own building a few blocks away. Her curiosity piqued, Maggie ducks under the yellow ribbon which isolates the closed intersection to get a closer look at Supergirl, and hopefully find out why she is gazing so dejectedly at the apartment complex. The Kryptonian, though, leaves as quickly as she came, darting off into the early morning sky headed who-knows-where. With a frustrated sigh, Maggie packs up to visit her cousin.

 

"Hey, Macintosh! Mac and cheese! Mac attack!" Maggie's exaggeratedly sprightly disposition annoys even her as Mackenzie stifles a yawn, still sporting a pair of flannel PJs, "Macadamia nut! Macklemore!"

"Do you know what time it is, Mags?"

"Hm...  _Party?_ "

"No."

" _Hammer?_ "

"It's a quarter to seven."

Finally tired of the facade, Maggie dully leads, "...I brought coffee."

Mac takes the cup from her outstretched hand and makes a grand sweeping motion behind himself, for Maggie to regally enter, "You're just lucky you didn't wake the baby."

\--

When she was a little girl, Maggie was infatuated with the stars. Blue Springs emits very little light pollution as such a tiny town, so the young detective spent countless nights gazing into the dark sky and admiring its spotted complexion. The reliability of starry nights became a cruel reminder without a roof to shut them out; Maggie's fourteenth February fourteenth, the worst night of her life, found her cursing the insensitivity of a planet that continues to spin through unspeakably traumatic, world-shattering pain. The stars taunted her that night and every night since, though National City's sleepless landscape conveniently obstructs the view from her window. Frustrated by nostalgia and the constellations on display from her current vantage point on the roof, Maggie gathers her things and drags the patio chair back where she found it.

The terrace is bathed in incandescent light gradually as the rooftop access door opens, illuminating the path like PowerPoint transition slide, and the silhouette emerging in its wake reveals itself as her upstairs neighbour Cass.

"Oh, hi Maggie," she says, startled, "it's late, I didn't think anyone would be up here..."

"No worries, I was just heading out anyway."

"Well you don't need to go, I just – I just came up to clear my head, it's – you won't even know I'm here, I'm sorry, just, do your uh... your thing..."

"Y'know C, you apologize a lot," Maggie leads, intrigued by and questioning what she'd initially believed to be false modesty.

"I guess I do, hah, sorry... No! No, fuck, not sorry. AH! That was a bad word, I'm – I gotta –"

"Hey, easy, easy! If you were wound any tighter, you'd snap. You need to relax,  smoke some pot or something, you walk like you've got a pickle up your ass." The snickering detective, seeing her shocked expression, continues, "It's fine: I'm a cop, not a drug dealer."

A familiar red figure zooms by far above them, oblivious to their presence but interrupting their conversation, and Maggie's roof-mate is enraptured. She watches in awe as the costumed hero soars past, and sighs deeply when she disappears behind a nearby building.

"Fan of Supergirl, huh?"

"Well yeah, um... I'm familiar with Kryptonian physiology, so I've been keeping up with her work, and watching her flight technique. Her aerial agility is remarkable, especially compared to her cousin's when he was just starting out..."

"She's... an acquired taste," Maggie admits, outnumbered in her lack of fondness for the alien, "she makes my job a lot more difficult, I gotta say."

"How? If anything, she does it for you." Cass snorts sarcastically, and earns a hostile glare from the proud detective.

"Are you –" Maggie cuts herself off, reminded of her cousin's heed not to alienate others - pun intended - by aggressively defending her profession, and adopts a forced friendliness, "I respectfully disagree, and if you worked for the NCPD – the science division, I might add – for even one day, I think you might... feel  _differently_."

"...and you say  _I_ need to relax..."

Taken aback by the impudence of her reply, Maggie stutters on a comeback for a few seconds, then indignantly crosses her arms and huffs.

"I'm gonna go. You have a good night, C."


	7. Chapter 7

Alex watches her go, confused by her own offhandedness. She misses her sister - that much is abundantly clear - so she figures her sadness is coming out as confrontation and quick defense. Maggie seems far more calm and subdued than Ben had led Alex to believe, she remarks, and then pushes the friendly cop from her mind.

"Alright Orion, where are you," Alex mumbles to herself as she sets up a telescope. Homesick and sleepless, she'd decided to seek the solace she always found in constellations.

She looks back fondly upon the first nights Kara spent in their home, and remembers how shy and confused she was in such an unfamiliar environment; the frightened alien was completely lost, silent for much of their first encounter. Alex and she first connected over stars, a slice of home for Kara and an area of expertise for Alex, who'd been drawing star maps for years. The ache in Alex's heart grows colder and more visceral when she slips deeper into the memory, her yearning for home manifesting physically, and she pulls her fleece tighter around her waist. The pitifully few visible stars from within National City only further sadden her, so Alex heads back toward her room after a twenty minute search.

The stone path is cold when her slippers pad across it and she nearly misses the black leather wallet carelessly dropped beside the stairwell door. One of its three panels had fallen open to reveal an outdated Metropolis Public Library card. She unfolds it completely to locate its owner's ID and a National City Police Department badge which reads  _Detective Margaret Ellen Sawyer, Science Division,_  flips downward, shining brilliantly under the flickering lamp by the door _._ Further inspection reveals minimal cash, and the outline of what appears to be a condom tucked within one of the card sleeves. Though initially curious regarding its purpose to a lesbian, she realizes that she and her repressed fear of intimacy neither  _need_ nor  _want_ to know.

Alex knocks five times in rapid succession. Two locks loudly click before Maggie cracks the door, wearing only a pair of grey men's boxer briefs and a loose white t-shirt.

"... Can I help you?"

Alex snaps out of her brief daze, her embarrassment only adding to the stinging blush on her cheeks from the cold rooftop air. "You left this on the – the roof."

Maggie's eyes widen as Alex hands her the wallet, and she sets something on the table before fully opening the door.

"Oh my god, thank you... that could have been  _very_  bad. I owe you one."

"Did you just bring your gun to answer the door?"

"Yeah," Maggie responds confidently, having made a habit of the safety precaution since joining the force.

"I do the same."

"You have a gun?"

"What?" She recovers flawlessly, "Oh, I said  _I'd_ do the same. If I had one."

When Alex earnestly smiles at her in such revealing attire for just a moment too long, Maggie's attention drops to the telescope at her side, "That's pretty fancy space gear. I oughtta call you Cassiopeia."

A sputter of laughter falls from Alex's lips as she stares at Maggie, in speechless awe at the star humour she so seamlessly introduced. Conveniently forgetting that her name isn't  _actually_  Cass, Alex swooned, "Constellation jokes? Marry me!"

It wasn't until Maggie looked at her quizzically that Alex processed her words through a heterosexual filter. Evidently flustered, she stammers to justify the comment and eventually gives up on saving face. "I just meant it's so hard to find anyone here who knows the stars like I do. They remind me of... home."

"Huh... nice." 

They share a moment of silence.

"This might seem weird, but, uh, do you have Snapchat? I don't have anyone to talk to, and we keep bumping into each other..."

Maggie tilts her head with a glint in her eye, charmed by the woman's awkward humility. "@msawyer86. But if you send me 'streaks' even once," she warns, her tone gravely serious, "I will block you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this and the next chapter are short and a little weak but i will be less terrible soon thank you for your patience


	8. Chapter 8

**Snapchat** , 12m ago

from cassandromeda

 

Maggie presses her big toe to the fingerprint reader on her phone and unlocks it on the first try, her phone on the floor while she simultaneously brushes her teeth and hair. The username makes her chuckle still, though they'd been chatting for two days; she picks up her phone and opens the snap which features the space nerd tightly wrapped in a turquoise blanket, only her eyes and forehead poking out the top. A brilliantly gay pun surfaces in Maggie's mind and she shoots back an exaggerated winky face with the caption  _blue is the warmest colour..._

Snickering to herself, she pulls on a henley and black capri leggings. It occurs to her that Cass may not understand the joke, but she still pats herself on the back for it and takes a sip of coffee.

 

 **Snapchat,**  now

from cassandromeda

_You've got toothpaste on your nose_

 

Maggie opens the front camera to respond and notices that she is, indeed, wearing a dried splotch of Crest: Simply White. She extends her tongue and licks the tip of her nose for the picture;  _saving it for later_. The yoga mat spread across the floor threatens to curl back up at its corners, so Maggie smooths it and lowers into a pigeon stretch to begin her Friday.

\--

Free time is a rarity around the precinct, but Maggie between cases finds herself analyzing some of C's puzzling actions. Maggie's draw to the unknown and insatiable thirst for knowledge make her an excellent detective - she sees and seeks out things others don't - and she'd taken to Cass as her new project. The ever-flustered but nonetheless beautiful woman appeared out of seemingly nowhere, fidgets nervously when she speaks, can't hold eye contact, and moves with a paradoxically confident timidness, as if she's being chased by secrets. 

Cassandra Wentling is a mystery, an enigma.

 

Having already reached the limit of allotted overtime hours, Maggie decides to hit the gym after work. Though it began as a way to compensate for what she lacks in stature, weightlifting is her extra-professional outlet; she takes both pride in and advantage of her deceptively toned frame, which gives her the element of surprise in close combat. The weights floor is crawling with people when she arrives, but she pays them no mind. She trains her upper body with a barbell and cable machines, then effortlessly manipulates a nearby free weight to isolate her arms and back.

"Hey, stranger."

Maggie looks up and grunts as she finishes her set of rows, and moves to the other side of the bench to switch arms. Benet stands behind her in an old t-shirt and Nike Pro shorts, her face and neck drenched with sweat. She scoffs to break the silence, "y'know, this was my gym first, the least you can do is say hello."

"Oh, that's  _your_  name on the door?" The panting brunette continued to exercise with a smirk, "Pardon me, Planet Fitness. I didn't see you there."

"Jesus Christ, Maggie, I get that you're pissed, but... let it  _go_."

She stops lifting now, and stares her ex dead in the eyes, "Well, you cheated on me. With a man. So no, I'm not going to just  _let it go,_  I'm not Idina Menzel." The Disney reference surprises both of them – Maggie's neighbours' infant daughters play the track  _every_  morning, without fail – and Ben seems painfully aware of the surrounding athletes' curiousity. Maggie is poised to continue, but no longer deems it necessary, having made her point quite clearly; Ben sighs exasperatedly and heads back to the studio from whence she came.

A bitter  _that's what I thought_  escapes Maggie's lips as she resumes her second set.

\--

**msawyer86**

_ran into your pal benet at the gym today_

**cassandromeda**

_uh oh_

_how did that go_

**msawyer86**  is typing...

 

Maggie pauses at the kitchen counter, her wet hair thrown up in a towel. She exits the chat, opens her rear camera, activates the dancing hotdog filter, and places it between two empty beer bottles for a wordless response.

 

**cassandromeda**

_yikes_

_do u go to the one at 7th and Gowanus?_

**msawyer86**

_nope, just south of Main and Fontanne_

**cassandromeda** is typing...

 **cassandromeda** , click to view

Cass had searched up Blue is the Warmest Colour from their earlier exchange and sent a picture of her laptop screen to Maggie, captioned  _good one._  Maggie smirks, amused in part by her previous pun but mostly by C's naivete.

**msawyer86**

_merci beacoup ma cherie_

**cassandromeda**

_because it's french too, double good one_

**msawyer86**

_looks like i'm up 2-0, but who's counting_

_also, who the hell uses Bing ?? what planet are you from ????_

 

Maggie freezes.

 

_**What planet are you from?** _


	9. Chapter 9

Alex never realized how heavily she relied upon the constant bustle of the DEO. Left to her own devices, she has no outlet for her distress, no distraction.

Her mind settles on Maggie quite frequently, though. Alex had never had the time nor interest to explore her sexuality, and what little experience she did have was not great; ever the people pleaser, she figured her indifference derived from enjoying others' pleasure more than her own. Her mother was proudest of her vicarious accomplishments – helping Kara acclimatize, teaching English to new alien arrivals, developing medical technology for wounded agents, et cetera – so Alex learned from a young age that praise and self-satisfaction were only deserved when others benefited. Any other pleasure was indulgent and selfish. Whether her sexual disinterest was childhood trauma or suppressed homosexuality is anybody's guess (likely both), but with a completely blank calendar before her, Alex had begun to uproot these questions and memories as if she were working a case.

This metaphor gives her an idea.

\--

"Cassie!"

She walks across the café toward Benet with open arms, and warmly embraces her friend. This greeting is wildly out of character for Alex, but Cassandra is a blank slate; through her, Alex can be  _anything_.

"Hey, Ben, thanks for coming, I needed to talk to you about... something."

"Any time, what's up?"

Ben is so delicate and kind in asking that Alex feels badly for experimenting on her, "I, uh, I think I'm bi."

"Cool! Do you need to, like, talk about it? Or could I get a muffin, they have really good muffins here."

"Um, yeah, sure, go get a muffin." Alex smiles and dips her head, taken aback by just how okay with it Ben is.

The taller woman smiles back and heads to the counter. Alex deems the first step of her mission a success, thrilled by the idea of being something other than straight. Even if it's just while she's undercover, her heart flutters when she thinks about the possibilities behind the door she'd just opened for herself.

"So, how'd you find out?" Ben reappears with two baked treats and places a blueberry muffin before Alex.

"Huh? Oh, well, I took a quiz online."

"...You took a quiz."

"Yeah, what's wrong with that," Alex inquires earnestly.

"It's just... usually more nuanced than that." Ben leans back in her chair and interlocks her fingers behind her head, "Have you ever been with a woman?"

"No, never."

"Have you ever been attracted to a woman?"

Alex thinks about Maggie – her deep brown eyes which glow hazel when the light hits them, the boldness with which she carries herself, almost  _daring_  someone to fuck with her, the one, two, sometimes three creases in her cheeks which reveal her amusement by measurable degrees – and nods assuredly.

"Okay, and you've been attracted to men as well?" Ben moves forward again, staring intently at Alex. Alex nods again, thinking back to her past  _endeavours_  and reasoning that there was at least some enthusiasm on her part. Enthusiasm isn't the right word;  _willingness_ , maybe.

"Ooh, sweetie, you are a  _classic_  70."

"What?" Alex is genuinely bewildered.  _Are there levels? Different types? How many?_

"70 percent." Benet takes Alex's silence as a cue to elaborate, and maps out a pie chart with her hands, "Think about it like this – bisexuality means being attracted to two genders. However, it's not always fifty-fifty. You can be 98% attracted to men and still be bisexual, and vice versa." Alex furrows her brow to indicate that so far she's following, "For you, I would guess the ratio is seventy-thirty."

"Which way?"

"The gay way. Well, gay _er._  More of you seems gay than not gay."

Alex nods slowly as she processes the information. Ben is right – it is  _definitely_  more nuanced than she thought.

"That's just what I see, though. It looked like you had someone in mind when I asked about women." Alex smiles sheepishly, and Benet smirks, "As I thought. Also, the thirty percent doesn't mean you'll only experience thirty percent of potential attraction to men. Nor only seventy percent to women. You could fall in love with either and spend the rest of your life experiencing only attraction to them, it's... more about the probability, I guess."

A gracious smile spreads across Alex's face as she thanks Ben for the information, all of which is valuable to her; partly to enhance her back story, but also to make sense of the whirlwind of questions in her brain. Benet gently lays her hand on Alex's, then pulls it back and launches into a story about the plethora of drunks with whom she spends her nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i started to cry in public because this fic is being received so well on here and im so grateful, i've just exposed myself as a huge softie but i don't care im so happy thank u so much


	10. Chapter 10

The heavy silence befalling the bullpen is broken by Maggie's footsteps as she briskly approaches her desk. The night guard at their precinct was used to her unsolicited arrival – the detective, known for her lack of social life, worked odd hours and was often around through the night – and is the only other person in the building, the other officers either out patrolling or temporary placed at the 49. Maggie smirks at the taped-off break room, its doorframe still lightly charred from the burrito incident, and grabs her ID card out of a locked drawer.

_Beep!_

A frosted Plexiglas door slides open to reveal the central database and evidence room, a line of computers and gadgets spread before her like gifts on Christmas morning. Maggie's clearance allows her access to medical records and criminal history, but still requires a warrant for any further genetic information, so she'll have to work with what she can get; she logs into the NCPD Science Division records, and cross-references the name Cassandra Wentling with suspicious alien activity. When no results surface, she expands the search to all of National City, alien or otherwise, and still finds nothing under that name. She logs out of the criminal directory and into NatCity West General Hospital to perform the same search.

"Cassandra Wentling discharged, January 17th 2017, 23:42... two weeks ago," Maggie mumbles as she scans the document, "presented with bruising of the left thigh and hip caused by blunt trauma, mild concussion... disoriented and distressed upon arrival, case transferred to Dr. Henshaw per government order."

Maggie's brow furrows as she puzzles over the new evidence.  _Blunt trauma, disorientation, and distress... could she have fallen to Earth?_

Upon further examination, Maggie finds a troubling missing piece.

The discharge record was entered at 23:42, but there was no record of Cassandra's arrival in the emergency room, no 911 dispatch transcription, and no trace of her transfer to another facility. There was, however, a Jane Doe admitted with the same symptoms at 22:16, and this record was entered at 23:46 – four minutes  _after_ she was discharged. The doctors must have revised the files and resubmitted them with her new identity under the Alien Amnesty Act, to protect Cass and grant her the right to medical care.

_Cassandra is an alien._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short & sweet & factually inaccurate probably, i'm neither a doctor nor a police officer so this is likely not how it works but y'know... don't worry about it


	11. Chapter 11

**Snapchat** , now

msawyer86 is typing...

 

Alex unlocks her phone and patiently awaits Maggie's message. Maggie, however, must have thought better of it, as her bitmoji disappears moments later; Alex opens her front camera, grabs a coin from the nearby change jar, and flips it high in the air for a picture. The result is rather amusing – she stares with mild panic at the blurred object as it soars above her – and she captions it  _penny for your thoughts??_

Five minutes pass, and Maggie still hasn't opened the snap.

Alex sets her phone down after eight.

Fifteen minutes, and she takes a sip of scotch.

She checks the time – 01:43 – and decides to just call it a night, exhausted already from the waiting game.

\--

**cassandromeda**

_I'll make it 50 cents..._

She feels like a distraught teenage flirt, waiting by her phone for the quarterback to call her. She'd woken up to erratic movement at her window, her survival instincts not yet adjusted to civilian life; she was snapped from her trance soon after by the marimba chime of her ringtone, only to find a text from Ben and National City extreme weather alert. Still no signs of life from Maggie as she sits now, nearing noon, in her gym clothes on the floor.

"Oh, baby, you're the one I remember," she quietly squeals in a hoarse falsetto, the catchy tune stuck in her head, "but you're playin' me for a fooooool! Oh, baby, I know all the games you play, but you've never shown me the ruuu-"

Two harsh  _thumps_  from the ground beneath her elicit a panicked yelp.

_Shut up!_

Maggie's voice carried through her own ceiling and Alex's hardwood floor, and startles her to her feet.

"It lives,"yells Alex, her hands cupped on either side of her mouth, in a feigned attempt to direct the exclamation downward and permeate the layers between them.

 

 **Snapchat,**  now

from msawyer86

_had it not been for the laws of this land, I would have slaughtered you_

 

Alex guffaws at the meme presently gracing her phone screen.

 

**cassandromeda**

_meet me on the roof in ten -C_

 

**msawyer86**

_you don't have to sign off, i can see your username_

 

**cassandromeda**

_you're a brat_

 

When Maggie's bitmoji disappears once again without a response, Alex worries she'd gone too far. She gathers her things to head outside and as soon as she hits the stairs, freezes.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Why, and how, in the name of God and Her great creation, would she come out to Maggie Sawyer?

Alex tried to remind herself that it was just an experiment, a trial run of sorts; Cassie is a  _character_ , nothing more. Even the worst case scenario would only be temporary, until she got her life back. Alex repeats this in her mind, a variant of which she's repeated every morning since the incident, until it begins to feel true and her anxious paralysis fades. 

Though still nervous, she puts one foot before the other; what came relatively naturally with Benet the day before has higher stakes now, for a reason Alex does not know.


	12. Chapter 12

"This is Leslie Willis, coming to you live and wired from Catco Plaza." Maggie fine-tunes the vintage radio on her bookshelf to clear the static, "Time to address the question burning National City's lips this morning: where is Supergirl? Our favourite vigilante enabler is notorious for her bad timing, but she has been radio silent for a suspiciously long time. Could she be shopping for an outfit that somehow makes her look even more Girl-Next-Door? Perhaps she and her hunky super cousin took a trip down yonder for a steamy Texan incest reunion... Who's to say."

Maggie cackles at the absurdity of her favourite radio reality check. Leslie Willis is one of few people who share her wariness of Supergirl, and this weekly segment helps to air her frustration.

"I'd like to point out some things, though. First, do American airspace regulations apply to aliens? She has been flying for months now without lights, and if I can't put my drone up in a public park, it seems only fair that she should follow some ground rules – pun intended. Second, can we commission an alien sanitation crew? Because her last showdown left a splatter of green goo three blocks across that still hasn't been mopped up. Clean up on aisle  _National City_ , please!"

Her cathartic Sunday morning ritual is interrupted by shrill belting, a distinctly-white woman's voice butchering a soulful tune. Amused, she grasps the broom leaned against her kitchen counter and jabs the ceiling twice, and the voice cuts off.

"Shut up," exclaims Maggie, the sarcasm dripping from her lips. She hears Cassandra's light scampering above her and is satisfied with her work.

"It lives!" 

Maggie snickers and plunges her hand into a pocket that turned out to be empty; after a brief, frantic search, she finds her phone beneath a stack of newspaper and selects an appropriate meme.

\--

 

Rain loudly pelts the heavy metal door as Maggie opens it, met instantly with a gust of harsh wind. In makeshift weather gear she dashes to the tented patio, where a soaked and shivering figure awaits her.

"Maggie, hey," she speaks through chattering teeth.

"You're freezing!" Maggie removes a layer of waterproof clothing to get at her second sweater, which she takes off and places around the drowned rat's shoulders. She quickly replaces her own coat before the water, blowing almost horizontally into the sheltered area where they stand, can infiltrate her toasty, dry cocoon. In hindsight Maggie looked ridiculous, but she's warm; Cass leans into her as Maggie rubs her shoulders, in the futile hope of generating enough friction to thaw her out, "May I ask why we're on the roof?"

"I didn't, um, I didn't check the weather, I wanted to tell you something..." Cassandra trails off and Maggie waits patiently, expectantly, for her disclosure, "whew. Here goes... I'm –"

A crack of thunder drowns out her confession, but they both remain otherwise unfazed, "You're what, C?"

Maggie turns first.

A flash of light appears, but not a natural one – some kind of orb had materialized before them on the other end of the roof, and emits harsh, blue-tinted rays. It expands suddenly and two armed combatants emerge.

Maggie anticipates their intent to block off the door and immediately springs to action, hustling Cass toward it. She'd seen that uniform before, and Cadmus' arrival is never good news for an alien. They reach the stairwell door in seconds and Maggie forcefully ushers Cassandra through it, then weaves a wooden beam through its handle as a barricade to delay the assailants.

"Listen to me C, I know who you are, and I'm not going to blow your cover," Maggie whispers forcefully as she leads her down the stairs, "but those guys are trouble. And if they know, you're not safe here."

"Wait, how do you know –"

"I'm a detective, Cassie, I detect."

"But it's classified, there's no way into the DEO main–"

"You don't have time!" A forceful  _clang_  comes from the blocked door, only two floors above them now, "Come with me, you can hide at my place and I'll call my guys, see what they can do."

A second  _clang_  is followed by the sound of crackling wood as the barricade breaks, splinters raining down like shrapnel, and the menaces bust through the door. Without a word, Maggie opens the 22nd floor access door with force that ought to rip the handle clean off, and shoves her friend through it; the borrowed sweater snags on the door hinge as it clicks shut behind them, abandoned to the dust. Maggie slams her apartment door shut as quickly as she can without breaking it, nor alarming her neighbours.

"Hide in the closet, under the stairs." The irony of Maggie's command as she pressed the frightened woman into a literal closet was, unfortunately, lost on her, as Cass had not finished her sentence.

 

They stay quiet, so quiet the air feels thick as they breathe, as if compensating for the emptiness their silence leaves in the space between them. Maggie paces the apartment while she sheds her rain gear, and places her gun in its holster. After what feels like an hour but in reality spans mere minutes, she hears muffled voices down the hall. She presses her ear to the door and strains to decipher their hushed conversation.

"...you think there are prints on this?"

"It's something, at least... Man, Jerry's gonna flip his lid when he finds out about this."

 _Jerry? Who's Jerry?_  A clash of thunder conceals their whispers, but Maggie can tell they continue to talk.

"... why he's not  _gonna_  find out. She ordered the strike, not Jeremiah."

_She?_

After an extended silence, Maggie realizes they've left and scrambles to find a note pad.

_So much for my day off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao y'all rly thought


	13. Chapter 13

_How the hell does Maggie know who I am?_

Tucked behind Maggie’s monochromatic clothing Alex begins to unravel the chaos, mumbling silently and making infitesimal gestures with her hands, as if counting.

Cadmus is narrowing in on her, that much is evident.

Her sub-dermal tracker was extracted while she was at the hospital, so they couldn’t have found her through the DEO radar. Kara is - both literally and figuratively - impermeable, and would _never_ compromise Alex’s safety.

Either the DEO has a mole, or Cadmus strong-armed WestGen into handing over their records.

Alex has more faith in the medical system and government than in its individual agents – humans are weak when singled out – and begins to list the possible culprits.

“They’re gone – _for now_. If you want my help, I’m gonna need answers.” Maggie whips the closet door open and finds her whispering to herself, surprisingly stolid given the circumstances, “Hello?”

“Sorry, yes. Uh, what was the question?”

“’Why is there a bounty on your head’ seems like a good place to start,” inquires Maggie, getting right down to business.

“If you know who I am, shouldn’t you have that figured out by now?” Alex coolly obfuscates, her numerous experiences of kidnapping now finally useful to her. She would dance around the questions to gauge exactly how much Maggie already knows, and not give her any more than that.

“I only know what you’re _not._ ”

It worked.

“I don’t know why Cadmus is after me, I just know they have my father.” Technically, not a lie. Lying by omission, but not a blatant lie. Alex smiles calmly, innocently.

“What is your real name?” This exchange begins to feel more like an interrogation with each passing second, especially with Alex rendered mostly immobile by the pile of fabric which left only her face and neck exposed. She sits – rather uncomfortably – with her knees tucked into her chest.

“I plead the fifth.”

“You’re not on trial,” Maggie quips back with a narrowing stare.

“I have the right to remain silent!”

“I’m not arresting you. I’m _asking_ you what to report to my superiors, to keep you safe. Those people,” She gestures toward the roof, “do not want to keep you safe.”

Alex does not back down.

“Fine, next question. Do you have legal documentation: passport, SSN, proof of residency, et cetera?”

“Yes, but now it’s my turn. How did you –”

“An extra-governmental anti-alien organization is trying to kill you and you, what, you want to play truth or dare? Really?”

This shuts her up.

“I am trying to _help_ you here, okay? This is what I do for a living, I keep aliens, _refugees_ like you, safe. I like ‘em better than most humans, actually.” Wait a minute. Maggie doesn’t think… No.

“I know this is a scary time for you, and all of this is probably terrifying, but I’m here to help. I’m not going to hurt you.” Her speech is so painfully condescending that Alex almost laughs. _Maggie thinks I’m an_ alien _._ It’s kind of a perfect cover-up, really – it explains her lack of backstory, friends, hobbies… _yeah, this could work._

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Maggie seems almost surprised that the harangue actually worked, “Okay, good. Listen, I’m going to call my captain, and then I have a few more questions. Let’s get you out of that closet, huh?”

Alex takes Maggie’s outstretched hand, allows herself to be gently pulled.

_Oh, you have no idea._

A faint trace of cigarette smoke hangs in the air of the precinct, as if the bullpen with its beer-bellied, tenured detectives at their respective desks haven’t aged with the rest of society, locked in a 70’s stereotype of New York cop despite their thinning hair and wet, tobacco-induced coughs. Alex sits in the middle of it all, in a metal chair by Maggie’s desk – the exception to the rule, covered in paperwork instead of ash and lunch remnants – while she ferociously types an email to the safe-house coordinator. Familiar with the system, Alex has few questions, and watches Maggie work. Her jaw tenses every so often, inciting a rounder, less defined crease by her lip, and her unwavering concentration is clearly displayed in her furrowed brow; how much time passes exactly she can’t say, but Maggie leans back in her chair and presses away from the desk to face her.

“The Ebdus family lives a few hours north, they’ve fostered aliens for us before and have everything you need. I can’t drive you up, but –“

“Why not,” Alex interjects, disgusted and confused by how disappointed she sounds. Maggie’s gaze softens, then a flash of anger twitches her left eye.

“Long story; my license was suspended, NCPD took back my car. Doesn’t matter – I’m sending you with a plain-clothes officer, you’ll like her.”

Alex nods obediently.

“Hey, Milton, your precious cargo,” calls Maggie, then gestures to Alex.

A tall Asian woman, Alex estimates about 5’8”, walks toward them in Adidas sweats and a college sweater. _She really takes ‘plain-clothes’ to heart, I guess_. Maggie shakes her hand, so Alex follows suit.

“I hope you like 99 bottles of beer on the wall, ‘cause my stereo’s broken and we’re in for a long ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i usually don't post one chapter until i've written the next one (in case i decide to change anything later for continuity) but i'm itching to get this plot moving so here is a raw chap  
> if in the next chapters something doesnt make sense, i apologize, i'll try to let u know in the notes so you can go back and read it if u are so inclined  
> have a wonderful day my gays


	14. Chapter 14

Subway trains have a very distinctive smell. Maggie has always hated it.

If she could hold her breath for the two stops from the precinct to her apartment, she would. The bodies packed in around her are bad enough, a web of arms tangled over her, without the scent of stale air and a hint of onion on a nearby businessman’s breath. She weaves her way through the crowd as best she can at only 5’3, and inhales deeply when she and the herd of cranky commuters resurface.

Though only without it for ten minutes, she checks her phone upon regaining cell service. She hasn’t heard from Milton since the afternoon prior, since Cass – or whoever, _what_ ever she really is – walked out of the bullpen, when her eyes darted back to meet Maggie’s one last time as she turned the corner with her chaperone. She had smiled at C, hoping to convey reassurance, to tell her that everything would be fine, but the truth is Maggie has no idea. The NCPD receives very little information, and what they do see is so heavily redacted that it doesn’t really inform them at all; Maggie has no gauge of who Cadmus is and what they want, nor what they’re capable of if they don't get it.

She releases a frustrated sigh, then enters the lobby of her apartment. Of the three elevators in the building there is almost always at least one out of service, so Maggie made a habit of taking the stairs. Her once energetic bounds turn to brisk jogging, which turns to a march, which turns to a breathless walk, until she finally reaches the 22nd floor and pads across the carpet. The design is such that one hall branches off into four narrower paths, one on either side of either end, each of which hold six apartments, 24 residential floors of 24 residences; lightly wheezing, she rounds the corner and heads down her own corridor.

The door marked '2208' rests slightly ajar.

Maggie quickly draws her gun, spins back, and presses into the wall of the main hall. After a few silent seconds she points her glock then quickly follows it into open space, intermittently checking behind her back, and treads slowly toward her apartment. She kicks the door the rest of the way open to find her front room ransacked.

“What the hell…”

Furniture, paper, photographs, _everything_ is on the floor, only some of it still intact. She looks back at the door, still swinging on its hinge from the sudden force, and sees splintered wood in three places along its frame: the apartment lock, her deadbolt, _and_ her chain were forcibly broken, likely battered by the intruders. The couch sits asymmetrically in the room with one of its cushions punctured, and now looks as if it is vomiting its own stuffing. Maggie removes and places her black ankle-length heeled boots neatly by the door, ironic given the state of disarray surrounding her, and yells, “NCPD!”

The only response is her own echo, so she heads down the hall to her bedroom with her gun drawn. She confirms that the apartment is empty and grabs a bag, keen to put as much distance between herself and the enemy, in as little time, as possible. Socks, sweaters, plenty of underwear, toiletries, wad of cash, spare ammo, chargers, Swiss army knife, water bottle, first aid kit, flashlight with hand generator, emergency pack (though not a doomsday prepper, Maggie keeps stocked emergency packs in her sidecar, apartment, and work locker), batteries, and her passport, are all thrown into the sturdy NCPD duffel. She grabs her motorcycle helmet and a box of protein bars on her way out, not stopping to shut the door – what’s the point – and repeatedly thumbs the elevator call button.

A sign plastered above the apartment bulletin which, conveniently, warns of the elevators’ dysfunction, makes Maggie freeze.

 

**_HAVE YOU SEEN THESE WOMEN?_ **

On glossy paper two separate images of Cass and Maggie are prominently displayed, offering a reward for information and/or their capture. Maggie tears it off the wall in a satisfying but ultimately futile gesture and runs for the stairs.

_Shit._

The plate-less T100 roars down the freeway beneath her, in black, skid-protective clothing and a full-face visor, beyond city limits. Her bag is shoved into the sidecar and tied down with bungee cord; though less than ideal, her belongings don’t threaten to spill out, and the setup is all she could manage without her squad car. A setting winter sun paints the still slightly wet road orange, and she feels her hot breath bounce back against her face beneath the helmet.

She hasn’t decided upon a destination, and won’t really need to until it gets dark. In her hasty departure, she neglected to bring the reflective Velcro straps she wears just above her ankles and elbows for night riding. She has lights, of course, but sleepy drivers demand as much visibility as a black-clad biker can get. Traffic lightens, and so too does her stress, as National City shrinks in her side mirrors.

An hour passes and with nightfall imminent, Maggie pulls into a rest stop to gas up. She dismounts her bike right in front of the convenience store, to keep it within view, and strides in to down an energy shot. The clerk eyes her suspiciously, as she’d left on her helmet for anonymity, but hands her the taurine blast in exchange for a scrunched-up dollar. She uses the restroom as quickly as she can and darts back out to her bike to refuel. She stands at the pump and flips up the visor, revealing only her eyes and bridge of her nose, while she checks her phone.

 

**3 missed calls, Benet Beauregard**

 

**8 texts:**

18:52 - _where are u? why aren’t u answering???_

18:46 - _maggie if u did something to cass i s2g_

18:45 - _are u guys okay?????_

18:41 - _what the hell is going on_

18:36 - _why are u and cass printed all over the building_

18:34 - _i just went to check on her and she isnt there, is she with u?_

18:04 - _im coming over to ur building, dont shoot_

17:33 - _sorry to bug u, i know ur mad, but i haven’t heard from C in a few days. have u seen her?_

 

 **To: Benet Beauregard** _19:10_

_cass and i are fine. she dropped & broke her phone, that’s why she hasn’t responded -- as for the signs we’re at the ncpd now, all a misunderstanding, c says hi and she’s sorry_

 

Maggie hits send and prays that she can rely on Ben’s naiveté. She takes no chance with traceable credit cards and places the cash inside on the counter, as the attendant is nowhere to be found. She turns on her headlights, pulls out, and merges back onto the freeway, aware of but not yet threatened by the presence of a black Chevrolet on her tail.

The further they get from National City, the closer they are to being the only two vehicles on the road. The Chevy pursues closely and it is abundantly clear to Maggie that she is being followed; she, for the sake of the few surrounding drivers, decides not to initiate any aggression until she is under direct threat. When the passenger side window begins a slow descent, she decides to make her move.

Maggie hits the gas hard and starts to zig zag within the center lane. By the time a passenger, acting as sniper, angles their upper body out the open window, Maggie has swerved carefully into the far-right lane with impeccable timing and come almost to a complete stop. As she did so she switched off her lights, so now is almost undetectable to her aggressors, whose tires screech to a halt ahead of her. She peels off to her right, slamming the motorcycle equivalent of _pedal_ to the _metal_ , and exits the off-ramp with speed that compromises her handling skill.

She does not look back, white-knuckling the handlebars to navigate the slick, winding road without headlights, but knows that the black car had already driven past the exit when she rerouted. Honking and the unmistakable sound of all-wheel drive in reverse quash her hope of being in the clear, though, as she speeds toward the roadside town before her.

Though she slows considerably before making a sharp turn, Maggie careens into a gravel shoulder lane and loses control. For a few seconds, she is airborne; thrown over the handlebars, she lands in a surprisingly forgiving snowbank. She wheezes, winded, and prays to a god she has not worshiped for half her lifetime that the van would not find her.

As best she can while still lying face-down in dirty snow, Maggie analyzes her injuries. Pain in her sternum and abdomen indicate at least one broken rib, internal bleeding is always a possibility, but hopefully nothing major, and a nauseating headache could be a concussion. All of this, though, pales in comparison to the blinding ache in her left wrist.

She resists the urge to wail in agony and strains to look, immediately wishing she hadn’t; it lay at an angle that wouldn’t be healthy for an owl’s neck, let alone a human joint. Acid runs up her throat and she vomits over the snowbank, as quietly as she can and without moving. She waits here for an unknown duration, floating in and out of consciousness, until all is completely silent for an acceptable amount of time.

“AHHHhhh…” Her scream fades to a whiny moan as her wrist moves indiscernibly. She yelps again when vibration agitates her throbbing ribcage. Once she realizes its source, her ringing cellphone, she scrambles to fish it out of her leather jacket with her right hand.

“…Hello? Mags? It’s Milton, I’m just calling to fill you in – jeez, Darth Vader, didn’t know you were such a mouth-breather.”

“I, need –“

“Wait, Sawyer, where are you? I just pulled up to your building, there are signs everywh –“

“I need help! UNH…” Maggie groans again, this time rubbing her temple as another bout of nausea hit. She vomits over the snowbank again, the smell of half-digested energy drink only worsening her headache.

“Maggie what happened? Where are you, I’m on my way, are you okay?”

“I crashed my bike, I’m – I’m hours away, I don’t know,” replies Maggie, desperate.

“Shit. Fuck. Okay, I’m tracing your phone, sit tight, okay? Where are you hurt?”

“My – my arm, and, uh, my…”

“Your what? Mags, are you still there? Are you with me?”

 

Maggie passes out again, her head against the snowbank mere inches away from her regurgitated lunch.

_Come quick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about this lol


	15. Chapter 15

Alex is quite fond of the Ebdus family.

Their eccentricity aligns with hers, and she is grateful for the service they provide – not only to Alex herself, but to any endangered aliens. The DEO serves mostly as a prison for the unruly, not a beacon for asylum-seekers, so Alex is happy to hear that their hospitality is not conditional.

Sunday nights are movie night for the couple and their two sons, so Alex joins them in watching the Princess and the Frog. The mother, Mallory, provided Alex with clean clothes and everything she might need; she stands tall though, nearly six inches taller than Alex, so everything she offered is too large. For the time being Alex wears the same cargo pants and baseball tee in which she arrived, her sweater exchanged for a fleece blanket while it dries from the morning’s torrential downpour.

This is one of few Disney movies Alex doesn’t _immediately_ hate out of principle. The ‘damsel in distress’ trope is tired and unrealistic, and she resents the princess for enabling it; as a child it infuriated her to watch women peeled away from their purpose by a _boy_. Alex could never, and still cannot, fathom how a man could sidetrack anyone from anything, no matter how charming, rich, or handsome he is. She lightly taps her foot as the soundtrack swings along and mixes with the sound of crickets through the open kitchen window.

The two boys, 4 and 7 years old, fall asleep almost twenty minutes in, and Mallory shuts off the television. Alex insists upon carrying them to bed after hearing Dante, their father, grunt and groan rising from the couch; she holds the youngest son to her chest with her left arm and gently tosses the other over her shoulder, so smoothly that neither wake up, then sets off down the hall.

The bungalow has three bedrooms, the first of which is shared by the two boys. Their chocolate skin glistens under dim incandescence as she tucks them in, the eldest first, to their respective beds. Mallory watches by the door, obviously not willing to send an _alien refugee_ out of sight alone with her two dormant babies, with a trusting and almost pitiful gaze.

“’You have kids?” Her tone is warm, inviting Alex to speak without demanding information.

“No, younger sister,” replies Alex, wistfully. Mallory simply nods in response.

Alex switches off their night light and exits, leaving the door open a crack, to rejoin the family in the living room. Though they select another film, Alex bids them goodnight – she’s had a long day – and lopes to the guest room.

She doesn’t sleep much that night.

 

\--

 

“You’re good with them, y’know.” Alex looks up from the soapy water and turns to face Mallory, who continues, “The kids. They love you.”

Her half-smile doesn’t convey the extent of her gratitude, but she offers one anyway.

“I don’t know how much they told you, but we have done this before. Y’know, the safehouse thing.” Mallory speaks softly as she dries the dish Alex hands her, “And I don’t know what brought you here, or who you’re runnin’ from, but… we’re glad to have you.”

The Ebduses had grown accustomed to her reserved, placid demeanor, which made Alex’s _thank you_ so much more meaningful than those two words could encapsulate.

 

\--

 

“Aw, man, so close!”

Caleb, the elder brother, rolls the soccer ball back in her direction. Alex stops it with the inside of her right foot and, in one bounce, sets it for another shot. An exaggerated wind-up and follow through give Caleb the impression that she kicked with all her might; the ball rolls along the ground into his waiting hands, and Alex groans, “Rats!”

“Rats?” Caleb looks at her quizzically, almost sarcastically.

“Well, your dad might pitch a fit if I say _dang it_ or _fooey_ ,” Alex explains in a mock whisper, and gestures to his father parked nearby in a camp chair on the otherwise empty field.

“You’re silly.” He giggles, then smirks with too much charm for a boy his age, “You gotta kick it with where your shoelaces are, not your toe. Get some air on it.” His syntax is fascinating – he can switch from seven-year old boy to neighbourhood bro to eloquent honour student in one sentence. The last phrase, _get some air on it,_ sounds like he’s quoting a coach, likely one of the local parents in the predominantly-black area whose Jamaican accent is thicker than his.

“Okay, let me try one more time.”

Alex had been with the Ebdus family for a few days now, and settled in with ease. Given her selfless nature she’s offered to help with everything she can, and today finds herself at the park with Caleb in preparation for his soccer game. He always arrives a half hour before everyone else, apparently, for Wednesday practices and since today is his first time playing goalie, he’s allotted a half hour on top of that for warm-ups. The league runs year-round despite the frigid wind, and only during days of extreme weather do they play indoors; Aaron, his younger counterpart, sits on Dante’s lap in a thick, warm one-piece to watch his older brother block shots.

“I just can’t get it past you, Caleb! You’re too good at this.” Alex’s tone turns playfully accusatory as she says, “Are you _sure_ you’re only seven?”

He beams at her as she walks toward him and scoops him into a hug, “Yes, I promise! EEEH!” He squeals in frenzied laughter when she begins to tickle him. Dante watches carefully, and not wanting to worry him, she puts Caleb down and stays crouched to address him as an equal.

“Your turn, try to score on me.” They switch places; Caleb runs backward, facing Alex with a glint in his eye, and she pulls the sleeves of her tight, insulated sweater over her hands to prepare for his shot. A blur whips past her and sinks into a corner of the net at around waist-height. She acquiesces with an impressed chuckle.

 

 

///

 

Maggie awakens to a gust of wind in her hair.

Still deeply disoriented, she moves to rub her eye and hisses at the sharp pain in her wrist. Her eyelids flutter open and the hiss turns to a bloodcurdling shriek.

Maggie frantically grips whatever is holding her up, at least 30 yards from the ground, zipping past a blurry rural landscape.

_What the honest-to-fucking-God fuck is going on? Am I dead? Am I hallucinating?_

She begins to squirm and groan frantically, and is hushed by a figure. The red cape flapping in their wake catches Maggie’s eye and a bittersweet, resentful relief falls over her.

 

Supergirl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since this chapter is somewhat shorter and the last one was such a whirlwind i have included a snippet of 16
> 
> idk if i like where im taking this, but i have some ideas and would love to hear yours if you have any so comment or something!!!
> 
> you can also find my gay ass on twitter https://twitter.com/HONKALLIE?lang=en and/or here https://twitter.com/sanvers76?lang=en if that appeals to u


	16. Chapter 16

_Maggie awakens to a gust of wind in her hair._

_Still deeply disoriented, she moves to rub her eye and hisses at the sharp pain in her wrist. Her eyelids flutter open and the hiss turns to a bloodcurdling shriek._

_Maggie frantically grips whatever is holding her up, at least 30 yards from the ground, zipping past a blurry rural landscape._

What the honest-to-fucking-God fuck is going on? Am I dead? Am I hallucinating?

_She begins to squirm and groan frantically, and is hushed by a figure. The red cape flapping in their wake catches Maggie’s eye and a bittersweet, resentful relief falls over her._

_Supergirl._

 

-

 

“…extensive…”

Bright lights.

“…like this when you found her?”

Blurred ceiling tile.

“… _so_ lucky…”

Throbbing. Throbbing everywhere, even her awareness of it pulsates.

“…didn’t know where else to bring her!”

Supergirl. A man with green skin. Wait, that’s not right; before she can confirm, a sharp prick in the back of her right hand dulls her senses.

 

Maggie wakes up again in an unfamiliar sterile room. Rhythmic, shrill beeping rapidly speeds up as she scans her surroundings: she’s alone in a glass recovery unit, hooked up to machines she doesn’t recognize, with a titanium cast over her forearm. This fascinates her most as her right hand grazes its webbed design, black strands of the durable material interlocking and lacing over one another. It has gaps, wide enough to fit her pinkie finger through and touch the tender skin beneath it, but is still somehow stabilizing her wrist well enough for the bone to set. She turns it over and sees a dressed incision just below her palm, concealed in part by the titanium isolating her thumb and most of her hand from the other four fingers, significantly limiting its range of motion.

Lethargy slows her realization of the events which led to her placement in this hospital bed, but the sudden flash still aggravates her headache.

“Maggie! You’re awake!” Milton, likely summoned by the sound of her increased heart rate, turns the corner and strides to her bedside, “How are you feeling?”

“Unhhh…” Maggie’s gravelly groan isn’t what she expected to come out of her mouth, but it answers the anxious cop’s question. Before she can respond she is dismissed by a tall man in all black clothing, who comes in to tinker with a monitor by her head.

“Looks like you had quite the fall, Margaret.” He reads her full name off a chart and she winces, at both the sharp pain in her head and the use of her full name, “You’ve suffered a major concussion and two broken ribs, as well as severe bruising of the pelvis and collarbone. Your fractured wrist was set using a plate and screws, and you’ll need to wear the cast for 3-6 weeks, but it is lightweight and waterproof; you can shower, it's virtually indestructible, and you won't need a second surgery to remove the hardware. This is a lot to digest, so I’ve sent your chart to our doctor offsite – I’m not sure if you know, Detective Sawyer, but you are a wanted woman.”

Maggie smirks apprehensively, and the man nods.

“I am not authorized to give you any more information, but since the organization –“

“Cadmus,” she interjects, “it’s Cadmus, right?”

He eyes her with a hint of admiration, “Cadmus, yes. Since Cadmus has your prints and genetic information, we’re going to have to put you in hiding until the government can apprehend those responsible. With injuries of this scale we’d normally keep you for observation, but seeing as that’s no longer an option, we’ll be placing you with one of our undercover agents with medical training. You’re in good hands.”

Something sparkles in his eye, a look of pride and almost mischief, and vanishes as quickly as it came.

“Protocol for a TBI - traumatic brain injury - of this nature is minimal stimulation, and antihistamines, until symptoms like any and/or all of the following: light and noise sensitivity, blurred or double vision, nausea, balance issues, disorientation, light-headedness, et cetera, subside _completely._ That means no electronics, exercise, work, sexual activity, nor anything else that could delay your body’s natural draining of the excess blood and fluid, and regeneration of damaged cells. Got it?”

“Crystal,” Maggie quips, and the doctor frowns.

“See, that’s funny, but given the precarious nature of this injury and the potential neurological deficits –“

“I’m being a smartass, it’s kind of my –” Maggie hisses, interrupted by acute head pain, “my thing.”

“Well, it looks like nature punished you well enough for that one. Oh, and as for superficial matters, your vehicle was totalled, but we were able to recover some of your belongings… it may not help to hear this now, but you got very lucky. Any faster on that turn and you would have landed on a concrete median like your bike did, instead of the snow piled against it.” With a nod, the doctor signs her chart, places it in a mounted metal sleeve on the wall to her left, and exits. The sleeve is otherwise empty and has the word **HENSHAW** engraved in its bottom right corner, exactly like that: in thick, capital letters. Maggie logs this information and falls back into a dizzy, sleep-like stupor.

She wakes up in Supergirl’s arms again, as alarmed as yesterday – was it yesterday? It was dark outside and it’s light now, but Maggie has no idea how long she was out.

“You’re not gonna smack me again, are you?” Supergirl is too comfortable at this speed and altitude, and it makes Maggie angry, “I almost dropped you the other day.”

“Um, what day is it, exactly?”

“Uh-oh. He warned me this could happen. Um, do you know where you are?”

“In the air.”

“Okay, dumb question, uh, who is the U.S. president?”

“Ugh.” Maggie’s face scrunches in distaste, “Do I really have to say it?”

“Blegh. Fair enough. Do you know your name?”

“Maggie Sawyer. Listen, I’m not hemorrhaging, it’s because I was unconscious. What day is it?”

“Oh. Thank god, Alex would kill me. It’s Wednesday.”

Alex must be the man who signed her discharge papers. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would kill an alien, or even could – he struck Maggie as a ‘friendly giant’ type.

They carry on in silence, and Maggie refuses to look down at the vertiginous blur of buildings beneath them.

Supergirl begins to slow and preps Maggie for descent, a horrifying concept that is equally horrifying in practice, and they land in a neatly-trimmed patch of grass. _Surely_ flying _is not part of concussion protocol_ ; she sits on the lawn for a few minutes to recover from the shock to her bruised body while the Kryptonian speaks on the porch. The house is modest and tidy and a woman brings her through it, picking up children’s toys as she goes. Maggie wonders why it’s so poorly lit, until she realizes someone put a pair of sunglasses on her while she was asleep. She is directed to a bedroom with heavy curtains, which she henceforth will refer to as a healing prison.

“If you need anything, give me a shout. I’m Mallory, by the way; you can call me Mal, or just holler and I’ll come running.”

Maggie smiles gratefully and feels an immediate relief of pain she’d become accustomed to when the shut door surrounds her with darkness. She falls asleep with ease.

 

“Maggie, I just heard what happened and – oh my god, are you okay?” A familiar, soft voice stirs her from sleep. The silhouette bounds across the room and kneels at her side, examining her wrist and stroking her forehead with their thumb, “I didn’t know it was this bad, who did this to you?”

_…Oh._

_Oh, shit._


	17. Chapter 17

Alex sits in a folding chair at the sideline when Dante receives a call. He hands Aaron to her and rises to answer it, waiting until almost out of earshot to mutter _hello_ in a deep, commanding voice.

In the net, Caleb jumps for the ball and tips it just over the crossbar, a beautiful save he’d practiced with Alex; she whoops and claps her gloved hands as best she can around Aaron’s torso as Caleb scrambles to get up for the next shot.

Dante comes up behind her, finished his phone call, and places a hand on her shoulder. He says very little, only that she’s needed at the house and Mallory would explain, and takes his son so she could get up.

The fresh wind feels nice as she jogs the two residential blocks back to the Ebdus household; Mallory meets her on the porch.

“Cassandra, thank you for coming so quickly – the woman who coordinated your case, Maggie Sawyer, shortly after you arrived actually, was… well, _compromised_ , and injured.”

Alex’s blood runs cold.

“She’s okay, she’s safe,” Mallory assures quietly, “and actually your, well, your new roommate. She’s sleeping now, but we’re told that you have experience in healthcare, and… that’s about all I know right now, they sent a chart, but it’s all gibberish to me.”

Alex nods slowly, suppressing panic, and the information doesn’t fully process in her mind; it sits between her ears, heard but not _heard_. It stays there, perched, patient, like an envelope she expected to receive and has torn open, but hasn’t looked inside. _Maggie Sawyer. Compromised. Injured._

Mallory escorts her into the house, “We receive very little information about the refugees we foster, for your safety, so I don’t need to know anything else. You do what you need to do, okay? If you need anything, supplies, or _anything_ , to help her: just let me know.”

Alex nods again, though still visibly distressed by the thought of Maggie in pain. Her heart aches. The information clicks when she touches the doorknob: _Maggie Sawyer. Compromised. Injured._

**_Here._ **

“Maggie, I just heard what happened and – oh my god, are you okay? I didn’t know it was this bad, who did this to you?” Alex pales at the sight and springs into action, rushing over to her; Maggie lies on her back in a fitted tank top, an elaborate cast covering a significant portion of her lower arm, with welts all over her chest and arms. Her legs are hidden beneath a blanket, but Alex can tell from the funny angle they rest at that they were not spared from injury. Her once olive-toned skin is now a mosaic of purple and green and blue as day-old bruises progress. Maggie stirs and turns gently away from the light pouring in through the open door, so Alex kicks it shut. She pushes Maggie’s hair out of her eyes and lightly feathers over the cast on her arm.

“So that’s how.” Maggie’s throaty scoff worries Alex.

“ _What_ are you…? Maggie, do you remember your name?”

“You just said it.”

“Where are you?”

“Bed,” she responds scornfully, rubbing her eye with her hand.

“Who is the president?”

“Jesus Christ, not again. I meant,” Maggie takes a ragged breath, “that’s how you knew Cadmus.”

“What… Maggie, what do you mean?” Alex shifts her weight, genuinely confused.

“I have a concussion, not amnesia. You said ‘Cadmus,’ in my apartment. All day Monday I was worried sick, kept replaying it in my head… you knew before I called them that.” There it is again: the round, unhappy dimple. “You’re DEO, aren’t you?”

Alex sighs. She needn’t say more; Maggie just nods, the irritation evident in her face.

“I’m sorry,” Alex offers, and Maggie sighs, “I would have told you, I wish I could have. I –”

“I get it, I do, I just – _really_ hate being lied to.”

Both of them know that there’s nothing Alex can do right now to rectify the disappointment in Maggie’s eyes. She continues to stare at the ceiling and Alex reads the information J’onn provided in a manila folder, with the light seeping through the margins of the door; the extent of Maggie’s injuries and detailed report of the accident cause a hitch in her breath, and she raises her left hand to her lips. Maggie remains immobile – because she is both stubborn and achey – and Alex gives her a soft look.

“Hey, um, I have to do a work-up and redress your incision site, is that okay,” She whispers, not really sure what she’ll do if Maggie says no. Thankfully, she offers a terse nod, so Alex seeks a pair of latex gloves from a cabinet by the kitchen.

\--

“Alex.” The doctor breaks an extended silence, to which Maggie responds with an inquisitive _mm?_ “My name is Alex. Uh, Danvers.”

It’s been almost an hour since Maggie’s anagnorisis, most of which has been spent in silence. Maggie’s resentment has begun to fade and she kind of had no choice but to accept Alex’s help, so she offered her arm without protest, palm-up as directed.

Maggie rests on her back as she has since she arrived, the only change being her outstretched arm which Alex delicately examines. The cast is secured magnetically to the implanted wrist-stabilizing plate and is therefore removable with a specific counter-magnet, which Alex presses to its seam, then she gently opens it like she would a book. It folds neatly out and provides access to the small adhesive bandage covering Maggie’s stitches.

“I’m just gonna call you _late for dinner_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that they're in the same place & on the same page, the chapters will be longer & omniscient - i'll more often include both of their thought processes/reactions instead of having overlap. have a wonderful day my good dude


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did like an hour of research on these procedures and common complications so it's probably not 100% accurate but it's also not gibberish  
> enjoy these useless lesbians

_“I’m just gonna call you late for dinner.”_

Just like that, the tension is broken. Alex beams at Maggie’s reference to one of their first conversations, and Maggie’s mouth twists with pride. She’d passed most of the silence connecting dots, and filling the various holes in Cass’ story – Alex’s story – like her loyalty to Supergirl, the ‘Al-Cass’ debacle, and her social ineptitude.

“Very funny, Sawyer,” Alex responds, unable to quip back with her usual sarcastic indifference. Maggie makes her a little bit stupid; it’s hard to be indifferent when one cares so much. “I’ve got to look at your bruising, double-check for internal injury. It’s all pretty routine, alright?"

“Got it. Check me out, Dr. Danvers,” she replies, in a low tone that lights a flame in Alex’s abdomen. Alex pulls the blanket down to reveal a pair of Calvin Kleins, similar to the pair she wore the night Alex returned her wallet, and Alex shudders involuntarily. She comes to her senses and begins to lightly press over the cotton of Maggie’s tank top.

“You got pretty lucky, y’know, an intra-articular nondisplaced distal radius fracture was the only surgical injury,” she whispers, focused on her work.

“Why do people keep saying that?” The frustration and anguish in Maggie’s voice catches Alex off guard, “I wrecked my bike, I crashed into a fucking snowbank, an all-knowing military force wants my head, how _lucky_ is that…” Her voice begins to shake, and Alex pauses her examination to look Maggie in the eyes, “I don’t _get_ lucky. Yeah, I could have died, but… nothing about my life has been lucky.”

“Maggie, that’s not what I meant –”

“I know, I know what you meant, it’s just… I don’t know. I stopped believing in luck a long time ago.” Maggie sighs and turns her gaze back to the ceiling. Alex is silent for a few moments.

“…You’re right.” Maggie turns back to Alex, surprised, intrigued, “Yeah, it’s not luck. This is crappy. You had a crappy thing happen to you, and it sucks, and you’re allowed to feel crappy about it. Because it is crappy.” Alex pauses, nods assuredly, and continues her spiel, “It could have been worse, sure, _and_ it could have been a lot better, so let’s just bask in the crappiness for a while. You deserve that. Not, not the crappiness, you didn’t deserve this, you just – you deserve the chance to be angry about it.”

Maggie feels small, more vulnerable than she’s been in years, and seeks reassurance with a whispered _yeah?_

“Yeah.”

In the tranquil placidity Alex pulls a stool to the side of the bed and plops down upon it, “So let’s hear it.”

“What?”

“What’s on your mind right now?”

Maggie hesitates.

“I’m here, okay? As much or as little as you want to share. I can be a brick wall to yell at, or an advice column, or an emotional punching bag, I’m very flexible.” Alex half-smiles to lighten the mood.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

\--

By nightfall, Maggie falls into a sleep as peaceful as one can be with Alex’s hourly interruptions. _What day is it, what’s your name, what’s three times five_ , tests of standard brain function that will continue for the first few days; Alex sleeps intermittently in the chair in fifty-five minute intervals, and administers painkillers every four hours. Maggie was too loopy to offer Alex a place in the bed, but her injuries are too fresh regardless; Alex is an active sleeper and seldom wakes up in the same position, so the risk of kicking or smothering her is far too high. Shortly past dawn, she wakes up on the floor with just her feet on the cushioned recliner, not even remotely surprised by her subconscious acrobatics.

“Gooooooooooooooooooooooood morning, good morning!” Alex’s crooning provokes an unexpected hostility in Maggie, who chucks a pillow in her direction, “Ain’t it great to stay up late, good morning, good morning, too youuuu! Hm, not a fan of Singin’ In The Rain?”

“You suck.” Maggie groans and pulls the cover over her face as best she can without aggravating her aches.

“I guess that’s why they call them throw pillows, huh,” Alex muses, then snorts with laughter. Maggie groans again.

“You are the actual worst. My god,” the exhausted patient complains.

“Yeah, well, I’m the doctor here and I say that laughter is the best medicine.”

“Someone should revoke your license.” Maggie snickers loudly, attempting to sit up straighter against the headboard.

Alex doesn’t say that she thinks Maggie’s laugh could cure any disease.

\--

"So I still have a few questions,” the detective leads firmly, though they both know she has no real authority.

“Shoot,” replies Alex, as she pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

It is now Thursday afternoon, three days post-trauma and two days post-op, so she prepares to perform a few check-ups.

“’You have a gun?”

_Oh, do I ever._

“A few, actually,” she responds, as modestly as she can.

“Ooh, don’t mess with Doctor Danvers,” Maggie mocks. Alex gives her a feigned stern, disapproving look, almost motherly, so she moves on, “Where are you from? You said the stars remind you of – unh…” Alex had accidentally pressed too close to Maggie’s broken ribs, which cuts her inquisition short.

“Sorry. Midvale. Uh, hey, this scar beneath your ribcage,” Alex questions, tracing a faded line that crosses her patient’s upper left abdomen and causing Maggie to shiver at the touch, “did you have a splenectomy?”

“Yeah, a few years ago. I don’t have a cool story: complications with thrombocytopenia, plus undiscovered vitamin B deficiency, caused low platelet count, I bruised like a banana - the rest is history.” Maggie rattles off medical jargon and it makes Alex’s stomach flutter.

“Unbelievable,” Alex whispers with awe. Maggie looks up at her quizzically. “It’s just, you broke left ribs 8 and 9, and fractures in the upper left quadrant can lacerate the spleen, but you already had it removed. I know we aren’t saying the L word,” Alex marvels, referring to luck, though missing another great gay reference, “but of all the ribs you could have broken, these are probably the best ones. Not that – y’know, I could talk my way into a deeper hole like I always do, but I think you know what I mean.”

“…Midvale, _Utah_ ,” Maggie confirms, and Alex gives a nod. She smiles and returns to her work.

Though swollen and discoloured, Alex can clearly see the definition in Maggie’s toned abdominal muscles, previously hidden by the shirt that now sits rolled atop her breasts. It leaves a trace of underboob exposed, simply because Alex needs to examine the area and it would otherwise aggravate the injured ribs, but the few times her eyes wandered upward she felt a crippling heat in her own lower abdomen that made it difficult to focus.

She proceeds with her examination and places both gloved hands on either side of Maggie’s navel, probing gently, to check for tenderness, rigidity, or distension. When each section is clear she moves outward, toward the obliques, and feels Maggie tense up.

“Pain?”

“Uh,” Maggie blushes, embarrassed by the instability in her voice, “nope. All clear.”

A sudden, pulsating attraction had briefly overcome Maggie and caused her to clench her legs together; she is just grateful when Alex accepts the dismissal and proceeds.

Silence falls upon them, both so preoccupied with worry of the other discovering their arousal to notice it requited. Alex hurriedly finishes her examination and rolls Maggie’s shirt back down, accidentally grazing her right breast in the process, and they both panic like deer in headlights. Still neither says anything nor makes eye contact, the shock of electricity rendering them both paralyzed, but after a few moments Maggie reaches across with her uninjured hand and asymmetrically pulls it down the rest of the way on her right and then her left. Alex smiles breathily, relieved, and Maggie reciprocates.

“All good here! Hey, uh, you want some mac n’ cheese?” Alex discards her medical gloves and offers food with too much enthusiasm.

“Sure. Uh, wait, no, I’m lactose-intolerant,” Maggie remembers mid-sentence, though she hasn’t had dairy in seven years.

“Oh. Um, macaroni without cheese, then?”

“Sounds good. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some sexual tension for your sunday  
> (we're getting there i promise)


	19. Chapter 19

Everything, from the protruding lumps of vermiculite to the faint water stain in the far left corner: Maggie has memorized _every inch_ of this ceiling. Resigned to the queen-sized bed, her week has been unstimulating, per doctor’s orders. Alex floats in and out, her looks of sympathy appreciated but short-lived as she soon after rejoins the outside world to play board games, read, or watch movies with the kids; to her credit though, Alex puts visible effort into cheering her up, telling horrible jokes while she performs routine examinations. For 20 collective minutes every day broken into two ten-minute intervals, Maggie is allowed to play word games with Alex - mostly to maintain relative sanity - and Alex kicks her ass spectacularly every time. She graciously blames it on Maggie’s injuries, saying that if they were both at 100% it would be a fair fight, but they both know that is not the case – Alex just kicks ass. It might as well be on her business card.

Maggie snorts at the thought: _Alex Danvers, PhD in ass-kicking,_ but in doing so causes a sharp pain in her rib.

The gasp causes Alex to look up from her Scattergories list with concern, which Maggie waves off – any residual non-concussion-related pain would extend her final day of complete bed rest to tomorrow, Saturday, and she is certain she’ll go insane staring at that god forsaken popcorn ceiling one more day. If all goes well by tonight she will be able to get up and walk around, and move her body beyond the awkward makeshift physical therapy Alex has been doing with her. She has not independently stepped further than the bathroom in four days, and only moves when shifting her weight every so often to prevent a pressure ulcer, so she is _itching_ to be free from this sedentary hell.

Alex has filled out at least one item for each category, except for “Things Found in a College Dorm.” She thinks back to her own experience, the stark contrast of either intensely studying or drinking herself into a fugue state, and figures those are not really universal – the letter is _B_ so she writes ‘books,’ a lame answer at best, before her mind starts to wander to a college-age Maggie.

_What was she like in the academy? Her marks must have been alright, NCPD is selective – what was her residence like? Did she have women over? Surely she was out of the closet by then, I’m the only idiot who realizes this late in the game –_

Before Alex has the chance to overanalyze her Freudian slip, the buzzer goes off to signal the end of their allotted three minutes. Maggie looks up from her board with a smirk.

“Things found in space… Big Dipper. Whatcha got, Danvers?”

“Boötes,” she replies, without missing a beat.

Maggie raises an eyebrow, “Excuse me?”

“Boötes. It’s a constellation.” Alex often forgets that her dork facts are not common knowledge.

“Bow-oh-teez,” Maggie repeats, exaggerating its pronunciation, and Alex nods as if to say _duh_. Maggie shakes her head in bemusement and reads out the rest of her list.

 

A steady arm keeps her upright as she rises from the bed to take her first steps as a free woman. Alex supports much of her weight at first, then gradually transfers it when Maggie gains more confident footing. Her beaming grin makes Alex smile too while she does a lap of the room; she gently swats her away with the titanium-casted hand when Alex reaches to catch a minor wobble, then apologizes profusely when she realizes how much that actually hurts – Alex backs off, gingerly rubbing her forearm – and carefully leans against the wall.

Her awkward expression looks like she is trying to swallow a smile, but it breaks through and paints her face with relief and joy. The room is still dark but daylight seeps in from behind the curtains and incandescence underneath the door, so their eyes and teeth glisten brilliantly when they smile. In studying her face Alex notices the top inner rim of Maggie’s eye shines slightly brighter than the rest of her tanned skin when the light catches it, a ring of illuminated waterline encapsulating the stark-white sclera and chocolate iris, and stands out beneath her lashes; she files this in the folder of her brain that stores her favourites of Maggie’s features.

A loud crack elicits panic in Alex and laughter in her patient, who extends her arms carefully above her head, “It’s just my shoulder, it’s fine.”

Alex gives her a warning look, and Maggie smirks warmly again. She moves carefully, bending at the hip and not her waist, to stretch the inaction from her stiff limbs without jeopardizing rib stability. The dark green thermal shirt she put on shortly ago exposes an inch or two of her oblique, the inch doubling and tripling as she twists deeper into a right side bend, and Alex’s wandering eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

“It’s, uh – it’s been a few minutes, report your symptoms,” Alex breathily requests, half doing her job but mostly unable to stand the sight of the gorgeous detective’s musculature without melting into a pool of heretofore-suppressed homosexual attraction.

“Headache: three, ribs: two, light-headedness –” In the process of rising from her stretch Maggie leans suddenly back against the wall, and Alex rushes to her side. Maggie holds up her hand, both eyes firmly shut, to wave her away again as the dizziness clears. “Um, eight? I stood up too fast.”

Alex gives her another dismissive and concerned glare, as Maggie massages her temples. The cast makes this somewhat difficult, but she manages.

“Okay, playtime’s over. Come and sit.”

Maggie looks down at the floor with a pout, like a child sentenced to time-out, but her face drops when she looks at Alex.

The woman before her, the unsolvable puzzle, the enigma, is… breathtaking, in that moment.

Alex’s face is etched with concern, her intoxicatingly soft gaze focused on only Maggie, the vein in her forehead dilated just enough to stand out beneath her skin, her short, wavy hair - neither definitively red nor brown - held back in a half-ponytail, and she is breathtaking.

Maggie smiles and acquiesces, then follows Alex to the chair in the corner. It is a lounge chair only lightly lined with cushions, so Alex grabs an extra pillow from the bed and places it behind Maggie’s back. The nearby ottoman makes a perfect footrest, and Alex sits across from her on the side of the bed.

“Wanna play Scattergories,” Alex suggests enthusiastically, and Maggie groans. “Hey, I could just leave you here, in the dark, by yourself…”

“Bananagrams,” offers an annoyed but admittedly lonely Maggie, and Alex perks up. She rushes to get the bag of letters from the nightstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for long wait on this one, i need your thoughts -- should i prolong the slow burn? it's getting kind of tedious/repetitive, impatient gay me has written another chapter that ends it but i'm not sure if that's just me being lazy & not wanting to finish. let me know what u think
> 
> thank u for your patience with me


	20. homosexualité

“Hey, Doctor Danvers,” Maggie gently calls across the room to her from her sitting position against the headboard; Alex is preparing to administer her 22:00 meds. These, the last of their kind, are to treat residual post-op pain - of which Maggie has very little – so from Sunday, the next morning, on, she will be fully clean of prescription medications. Ibuprofen is allowed but only sparingly, because anti-inflammatories at this stage will mask ongoing symptoms and complicate her concussion recovery.

“What’s up?” She doesn’t turn around to face her patient, merely responds into the small bin of assorted drugs.

“You were trying to tell me something, on the roof,” Maggie leads, hoping Alex will finish the sentence.

“Oh. Yeah, um, I was. It hardly seems important now though,” deflects the awkward agent, as she sifts through the bin with more urgency. She continues to do so while turning to face the bed, then slows upon meeting Maggie’s patient, expectant look.

“…Really? It was important enough to drag your ass – _both_ our asses – into a hail storm.”

They both know that Alex, by nature of their position in the room, holds all the power; Maggie really has no leverage, no control, no tangible advantage over the silent agent before her but Alex, simply under the spell of those curious eyes, feels compelled to submit. There is no denying now that Maggie has completely captivated her attention and affection. The realization does not _hit_ her, exactly – it more washes over her, fills her head to toe with the clarity she hadn’t realized was missing until this point.

“Alex, I won’t pry, but you know you can –”

“I think I’m a gay,” she blurts, cutting Maggie off mid-sentence, the ending more like a question than a statement, “… I, uh, yeah. I think I might be, gay. That’s, that’s what I was… yeah.”

Wide-eyed, dumbfounded, silent, Maggie stares back at her as she fiddles with the medicine in her hand. That was not the disclosure she expected. Their eye contact is prolonged, tense, and uncomfortable; Maggie can tell there is more, more pertinent detail she has not yet divulged, by the panicked flit of her pupils _left, right, left, right,_ alternating contact with each of Maggie’s.

The rush of adrenaline beneath Alex's skin makes her feel the vibrations in her body at an atomic level, the incessant ring in her ears, and the clench in her jaw so tight she could grind her teeth to dust. Maggie doesn’t respond, so she continues, “I’ve had a lot of time to myself, lately, and I started thinking… fatal mistake, that is…" she laughs, and wags a pointed finger as she paces. "Anyway, once I started I… I couldn’t _stop_ thinking, about it…” Alex pauses and collects her thoughts. “…All my life I felt morally superior, impermeable, because I never lost my focus over which boy would ask me to the dance, it was never the end of the world. I always thought it… I don’t know… but undercover, there was nothing for me to focus _on,_ except… well, _you_.”

Maggie’s eyes widen further and her lips part while Alex stares at her nervously. Her eyebrows pick up as if asking a question and after a few seconds Maggie nods ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching outward, then back in as a means of non-verbal consent. Alex is too far in to turn back now: she walks slowly toward the bed where Maggie lay prone, places one hand tenderly against her temple, and pushes some of the hair that rests there behind her ear. Neither dares to break the desperate eye contact, and with a shaky breath Alex leans down, closer, until her gaze flicks down to Maggie’s lips.

God, her lips.

Alex grants herself a few seconds to admire them: the clusters of freckles that rest atop, beneath, around them, the soft vertical creases that disappear when she smiles, the smooth, symmetrical curvature of her cupid’s bow, the way her canine teeth protrude slightly further than the others and rest on her bottom lip to create two barely-noticeable divots, their natural sheen that catches the light, and then – _Lord_ _, have mercy on my soul –_ she _licks_ them.

With Alex only ten inches from her face, Maggie licks her lips.

Maggie’s heart is pounding hard, like it wants to break the rest of her ribs. For weeks she’s been fighting attraction that has only strengthened exponentially since finding out who Alex really is, which apparently is now also _a gay,_ as she so eloquently put it. Her tongue quickly swipes over her own bottom lip and Alex’s arms tense, elbows locked, her body now hovering above Maggie’s as she leans over the side of the bed.

Maggie reaches up with her free right hand to graze Alex’s cheek, sliding up to hold just beneath her jaw and wrap her fingers behind her neck, all the while reciprocating her nervous gaze. Maggie’s eyelids are first to drop as she extends her neck forward, then pulls Alex’s chin up with the back of her thumb.

 

When Maggie’s lips meet hers, Alex melts away.

All pretense of Alex Danvers fades to black. As the truth of kissing the woman beneath her – the woman kissing _her_ – explodes into reality, Disney movies make sense.

Alex responds enthusiastically, taking Maggie’s bottom lip between her own, and transfers to her left arm so she can lace her fingers through Maggie’s hair. She leans further downward and rests her forearm against the pillow to lean one knee on the mattress. It dips beneath her weight and Maggie delicately rests her casted hand on the small of Alex’s back, fingers and thumb strained to properly hold her, and Alex’s heart sings. She is gentle with the injured woman like with a ripe banana. She holds up all of her own weight, and every touch is light as a feather; Maggie acts similarly, as Alex’s emotional fragility is comparable to her own physical. Alex hums involuntarily and Maggie smiles into the kiss, then strokes her cheek affectionately. Too soon, far too soon, Maggie’s lips slowly draw back from hers and Alex inhales shakily, her eyes still shut in euphoria.

“You were saying,” quips Maggie through an adoring, innocent smirk, her eyes sparkling in the darkness, and Alex bashfully averts her gaze downward with a light laugh.

“Yeah, I am – I am gay,” she repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my impatience got the better of me


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a disgustingly fluffy interlude while i iron out this writer's block
> 
> also more of her epiphanic and aggressively homosexual internal monologue

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Maggie whispers into her hair, up from the bed already while Alex continues to sleep curled up in the chair. The snoring creature pulls the blanket over her face and sighs contentedly, a sight that warms Maggie’s heart, so the detective leans over her to gently pull it back with one finger and brush a few tangled strands from her cheek, “It’s time to wake up.”

“Mm… no,” she mumbles, and burrows further into the chair. Maggie laughs at her groggy insistence and lightly kisses her forehead, then watches her cheeks crinkle as a sated smile covers her face.

“No sleeping on the job, or I’ll hobble out of here and find myself a new doctor,” teases Maggie. Alex’s eyes flutter open to the sight of Maggie in basketball shorts and a loose-fitting tank top; while her ribs heal she cannot wear constrictive clothing, nor a bra, which has on more than one occasion compromised Alex’s focus. Maggie straightens her posture to continue, “Mal made waffles, apparently it’s a Saturday tradition.”

“Mm, it would be rude not to participate,” she slyly responds, her voice still raspy with sleep, and Maggie snorts. Alex stretches her arms in slow motion and dramatically yawns as she rises from the chair.

She smiles when the past night’s events replay in her mind. Kissing Maggie – running her fingers down the smaller woman (a _woman!_ )’s spine, touching and being touched, holding and being held – was a transcendent, spiritual experience, completely unlike anything Alex has ever felt. She’d been kissed before, but not like this. Never like this.

This feeling, the feeling of floating away, anchored only by a partner’s lips on hers and hand on her cheek, is what she was _supposed_ to feel with Rick, and Henry, and Elijah, and Max, and every other anonymous hookup she’d been acquainted with at bars or parties but never quite seen to fruition. This is the feeling she tried to rationalize her lack of experience with, blaming it on alcohol or preoccupation or _anything_ to avoid the real truth that hid just below the surface. This is the feeling she suppressed in Vicky’s basement, Vicky’s bedroom, Vicky’s car, Vicky’s arms – the comfort of which she attributed at the time to a lack of physical affection growing up, _this isn’t real, maybe all hugs feel like this and I just didn’t know, maybe I miss dad, maybe it’ll go away after a while, maybe I’m not remembering it properly, maybe it never happened. Maybe it never happens, not to people like me._

Alex reconciled long ago that she would never experience things like this.

With a dopey grin, she rises from the chair and follows the scent of fresh batter.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Little changes.

The sentence works two ways. Little (noun) changes (verb), as much of their arrangement stays the same: Scattergories and Bananagrams and crosswords and Scrabble – though Alex went through and picked half the tiles from the bag, because a full game would wear Maggie out – continue, now littered with stolen glances and constant, subtle contact like hand on thigh or knees pressed gently together as they play. Little (noun) changes (verb) because she is still injured, they are still hiding, Cadmus still hangs over them like a storm cloud that won’t break. Little (noun) changes (verb) because they are not safe, and the fact that they kiss each other now does not blind them to that. Romance, however thrilling and epiphanic, does not allow them to forget.

Little (noun) changes (verb).

These little (adjective) changes (noun), though, the little (adjective) changes (noun) in their routine like chaste kisses during physical therapy and Alex’s visits so frequent they might as well install a revolving door, make the situation more bearable. During her moments of willful denial she might even say it’s pleasant, like a vacation, though they both know that’s not the case. Little (adjective) changes (noun) like the way that Maggie’s whole heart smiles when the familiar silhouette appears in the doorframe, that the more frequent visits mean not only that she’s healing but that she gets to _see_ Alex instead of just the whites of her eyes and teeth. Little (adjective) changes (noun) like the fact that they no longer have to hide their affection, avert their gaze, clear their throat to distract from the warmth advancing lower, lower, lower in their abdomen until it’s not in their abdomen at all anymore and they can’t form a coherent thought. Little (adjective) changes (noun) that make a big difference.

Little (adjective) changes (noun).

Little changes.

One big change, though, is that today they will be visited by Witness Protection Services. Such is protocol, apparently, that an undercover agent is sent to inconspicuously deliver supplies and relay information as necessary. Fair enough, because the first thought when faced with danger so imminent one has no choice but to fall off the grid is rarely _I’d better grab an extra pair of socks._

Neither Alex nor Maggie have communicated with their own bosses since their incidents, seven and six days ago respectively; Maggie had spoken with Alex’s, though she didn’t know this at the time. Alex is looking forward to a refill of her medication, because Detective Milton was only able to snag a week’s worth of SSRIs from the pharmacy before splitting town, and Maggie has requested a game of Clue. Alex had laughed at the benched detective and her predictability, but is not complaining – she hasn’t worked a case either, for almost a month now – about the updated material.

The air is crisp and refreshing when it pours through the window that Alex opens, still protected by the heavy curtain and thus undetectable from the outside. She watches Maggie’s diaphragm draw oxygen deep into her lungs, wincing slightly at the expansion of her ribcage, then exhale contentedly on the bed.

“Fresh air feels good, huh,” Alex suggests softly, then crawls under the covers next to her. Maggie sits up at an angle against the headboard, and turns her head to face Alex with a mischievous grin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Doctor Danvers’ latest discovery: air is good,” she declares bombastically and earns a raised eyebrow from the agent, amused despite herself. Maggie rests her cheek on Alex’s shoulder, then quietly affirms, “Yes. Thank you - Alex.”

Alex rests her own head on Maggie’s. “You almost called me C, didn’t you.”

“Old habits die hard.”

Alex snakes her arm around Maggie’s upper back and entwines their fingers, gentle with her cast and pulling her closer, then presses a kiss to her messy morning hair.

“We haven’t had the discussion yet,” Maggie whispers, “about what we’ll do after. When we’re back, in National City.”

Alex sighs. “Ignorance is bliss, I guess…”

“Are you going to tell your family?”

“They’ve already been informed, I’ve been undercover for three weeks, they know –”

“No, Alex, about us. Sorry, no, about _you_ : is it safe for you, are you gonna come out?” Maggie gently shakes Alex’s arm from her shoulder, places a comforting hand on her thigh, and meets her eye. The agent displays a flash of panic, quickly replaced by intense focus.

“I hadn’t even though about – about _that,_ ” she responds breathily.

“Hey, hey, you don’t _have_ to, there’s no rush. I didn’t mean to scare you, I… listen, I get it, okay? You hear horror stories of people who react badly, and it’s _scary,_ ” says Maggie, lifting Alex’s chin with her casted hand, a stormy look in her eye that matches the icy draft from outside, “I don’t know your family, but Alex you are _strong. So_ strong, and no matter what happens, you are real. This is real, and you deserve a real, full, happy life." She pauses. You talk a lot about your sister, how do you think she’d take it?”

Pensively Alex zones out, eyes shut and fingers nervously tapping against Maggie’s forearm. “I don’t know, I, I think she’d be okay – she’d probably have a lot of questions, I guess.”

They are both silent for a few seconds, collecting their thoughts. “Do _you_?”

“What?”

“Do you have questions? For her, for me…” Maggie shifts her weight and tucks one of her legs in to sit half cross-legged on the bed, away from the headboard and facing Alex. She takes Alex’s hands in hers.

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Alex exhales forcefully, like blowing through a straw. She looks down at Maggie’s hands in her own before re-establishing eye contact. Maggie empathetically nods, then brings her hands to Alex’s cheeks and kisses her forehead.

“Well, I’m here, okay? You can ask me anything, anything you need.”

Alex bobs her head up and down with a terse smile then raises her hand to Maggie’s, where her fingers still rest below Alex’s ear, and slowly drags her thumb across the detective’s right knuckles. The metal covering Maggie's other wrist is cold against her jaw, but she does not care; she pulls Maggie in with her free hand and kisses her sweetly, deeply, and the fear dissolves into an equally-overwhelming adoration for the woman before her.

Maggie withdraws both hands for just a moment before repositioning them in Alex’s hair and on her back, scooped into a hug that Alex delicately reciprocates. She is tender with Maggie, every touch light and tentative like handling a baby bird. Being treated as anything other than a hard-headed, intimidating powder keg at first drove Maggie insane, but after stubbornly refusing assistance for a little while she surrendered to the reality of her situation, of her injuries. The thoughtful and considerate care with which Alex dotes upon her patient makes Maggie swoon, though she’d never admit it: she has a certain reputation to uphold, she cannot afford to go soft publicly.

Maggie is momentarily overcome by a wave of relief. In all her life she has never been held like this: close, and tight, and protective, shielding her from the world’s many evils. Lord knows her teenage years were not rife with familial affection, but even as a child she was not hugged, was not kissed goodnight, was not dependent. She play-fought, grew a thick skin, and developed a scrappy disposition as a means of survival; she was the guardian, never the guarded.

Here in Alex’s grip she feels secure, trusting, sated. A tear rolls down her cheek.

When the solitary droplet reaches Alex’s skin she immediately pulls away with concern. “What’s wrong, Mags, did I hurt you?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” reassures the brunette, with very little credibility. She smiles up at Alex, coveted third dimple in full bloom, then whispers the affirmation she’s repeated to herself since the time Alex’s gloved fingertip grazed her breast: “You’re not gonna break me, Danvers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna write the witness protection bit separately cos i still have to research it a little bit  
> all i've seen is from brooklyn nine nine lol


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait my treasured homos, i've been struck by midterms and also just really really sad abt what the writers have done to my babies so here is this

Dante opens the door when it is rapped three times. Alex and Maggie stay in their room and, though she was told not to, Alex crouches by the door to listen. She can tell it is the stocky father figure and not the gentler Mallory who answers because his slow, commanding steps strain the hardwood, so loudly that its vibration beneath his socked feet and its subtle groan can be heard down the hall. Muffled conversation takes place at the front doorway for nearly a minute before the officer, whom Alex deems to be a female, mid-30s, tucks inside the house. When foot fall approaches down the hall she creeps back from the wall and sits at the edge of the bed, the two of them still completely focused on the other side of the door. Dante swings it open, then invites the officer – female, mid-30s – into their room. Maggie and Alex both stand to meet her.

“Detective Sawyer, Agent Danvers.” The woman, dressed in a navy cargo jumpsuit with the logo of a plumbing company embroidered on its chest, nods to them both. “Officer Coulter, Witness Protection Services. I work for a subset of the DEO. I’ve brought the items you requested, as well as medical supplies for Agent Danvers and some spare clothing.”

Maggie catches a crew-neck thrown in her direction and tosses it to Alex, whose heart swells at the simple chivalrous gesture. Another is placed before Maggie and she pulls it on over her three-day-worn tank top, which is then - with some expert maneuvering - yanked out from under the sweater and deposited behind her on the chair. She struggles to push her cast through the thick sleeve until Alex pulls it taught, then stretches its cuff to ease her arm out; she smirks at Alex and her hand erupts in a sudden jerk. She rolls the sleeve up just south of her elbow and wiggles her fingers for dramatic effect.

“Thank you,” says Alex as she turns to accept the pill bottle extended to her. Like clowns from a clown car, Coulter empties the cardboard box until its contents lay on the bed before the girls. Two decks of cards emerge last and Alex nearly cries at the thought that went into care package. A few sealed envelopes, addressed to the Ebduses like bank statements, are drawn from Coulter’s pocket and distributed: two for Maggie, three for Alex.

“Letters from your families,” Coulter explains, “and your employers.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about our case?” Maggie’s desperation is conveyed in her clear, high tone, but Coulter shakes her head.

“Unfortunately no, I don’t know much myself but I’m not at liberty to say.”

The two eager investigators deflate a little bit, unsuccessful in masking their disappointment. Maggie’s attention turns back to the letters in her hand and she slips her finger beneath the seal, then drags along its seam. The paper slices apart in a jagged line, eventually leading Maggie to tear its front face fully open _like some kind of barbarian_ , as Alex remarks.

“Shut up, Danvers, I’ve seen you demolish a stack of waffles with the focus and pertinacity of an alien raid.” Maggie’s eloquence and expanding vocabulary are mostly a result of their word games, and Alex is turned _on_. If it weren’t for the muted yellow bruising on her chest and flank Alex would have jumped Maggie right then and there, Officer Coulter be damned; but alas, she quells the fluttering flame in her chest and draws her attention to the letters.

They read in silence, and Coulter stands respectfully with averted gaze to create the illusion of privacy. Every so often one will gasp, or smile, or release a strained laugh. Alex observes that Maggie opens the family letter first, and Maggie is surprised that Alex does the opposite – just the night before Alex spoke so fondly of her sister, and of how close they are – but Maggie understands all too well that it’s complicated with family, and Alex had not mentioned anyone else.

The note, written in her cousin’s messy scrawl, had been poorly thrice-folded and torn unceremoniously from a legal pad. Mackenzie’s concerned rambling moistens her eye.

_Mags,_

_I know you’re a badass and can handle your own stuff, but if you die, so help me, I’ll kill you._

She snort-laughs through tears.

_Joking aside, I heard you crashed your bike… thank you, for wearing a helmet and skid guards. You do stupid shit sometimes, but I take comfort in knowing it’s all calculated. You know what happened to ~~papi~~ your tio, so… just, don’t gork yourself on that thing, alright? I love you, don’t ever make me pull the plug on you. Get a moped - Macklemore made those cool again._

She sits on the bed rather suddenly, overcome with emotion at the use of his nickname. It seems like just yesterday she was on his porch with coffee, being a brat.

_I saw the poster from the people looking for you, you and another girl… they said you’re with her now, that she’s a doctor? Anyway. She’s cute. I approve. Whether you’re into her or not, I’m glad you aren’t lonely. And hey, at least you have something in common :)_

_They said they didn’t know how long you’d be gone, you probably don’t know either, but… try to come back soon. We miss you a lot. Tuesdays are boring without you. I love you so much, always._

_Sawyers against the world,_

_Mac n’ Cheese_

 

Maggie wipes wet cheeks with her fleecy forearm and folds the letter. Alex wears a soft smile as she reads hers.

 

_Agent Alexandra Danvers,_

_The DEO commends your efforts in the medical care of Detective Margaret Sawyer under unconventional conditions. Your willingness and adaptability are among your best traits._

_At this time I have been instructed not to inform you of our upcoming Cadmus sting. Agent Schott, building upon the hypothesis you sent to testing in November, has certainly not detected activity in warehouses throughout the state, and Supergirl will not be leading her first raid. She has stepped up in your absence; I believe you would be proud._

Alex beams, both at J’onn’s sly evasion of the rules in sharing details and at her sister’s progress.

_I send my best wishes to Maggie for a speedy recovery, and thank her for her work with the NCPD Science Division. Her collaboration on past missions with us has been invaluable and we sorely miss her as a colleague and liaison. May you both return to us soon._

_Your sister and friends have been quite insistent upon sending a message to you and after reading it, I could not in good conscience print such frivolous matters on DEO stationery. They have been granted a separate envelope._

_I can only imagine how difficult this is for you, as your fondness of control compels you so strongly. I also believe that surrendering that control can be a valuable exercise in trust, and will serve you well in the future. Let us, the DEO, your family, take care of you as you have so dutifully of us._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Dir. Hank Henshaw, DEO_

 

She looks up to see Maggie’s bloodshot eyes meeting hers, a look of pained joy on her face. Alex smiles gently at her in solidarity, and they both turn back to their second envelopes.

Alex sits back in the chair as she neatly breaks the seal.

 

_Dear Alex,_

_I miss you a lot. J’onn has been ~~making~~ helping me train for The Thing and it’s exhausting. I don’t know how you did this, Alex, learning about the formations and non-verbal comm signals and everything, it’s… _ so _much harder than I thought._

Well, it’s about god damn time she learned them.

_I miss you so much. It’s kind of my job to get you back, because you can’t come back until Cadmus is gone and we have to beat Cadmus, but we all wish you were here to help. You’re smart about this stuff, we don’t tell you enough how much we appreciate you. I don’t tell you enough._

_The protocol is good, though. It’s helpful. There was an attempted armed robbery and I got in trouble for breaking the perp’s hand. “Pulverized,” apparently. In my defense, she was only in surgery for a few hours… but J’onn ~~yelled at me~~ showed me the medical bills, and it was more than she actually tried to steal. (Universal anaesthetic is expensive. You should have him show you sometime!) _

Alex smirks, as she knows the cost of an alien anaesthesia she concocted herself.

_They bumped my clearance down for a week and made me take an exam to work in the field again. Rules are there for a reason, I guess…_

_Anyway. Things are good here, we’re all working hard to beat Cadmus. Mon-El is training for field ops now too, he’s doing well. Teaching aliens is really frustrating too. You’re better at it. ;-)_

She wipes a grimace from her face she hadn’t noticed developing at the mention of their new Daxamite friend. She hopes she has done a good enough job with teaching _her_ alien that Kara will not succumb to his incessant flirting, but some things we can only learn from our mistakes.

_Winn says hi. He misses you. Don’t tell him I told you, but you’re like a big sister to him. You’re nerdy in the same way. He tries to talk to me about tech stuff but I end up knowing less than I did before. Also you keep his ego in check: his sassy quipping is unbearable, he hasn’t been threatened in a while and it’s somehow not intimidating when I do it. I could toss him off the balcony if I wanted to, but I think he knows I won’t._

_James has taken your place for sister night. I thought it would be weird at first, but he’s secretly a huge dork. He watches the musicals you hate with me! It’s the best! He and Gene Wilder are getting me through. He took this picture of me while we were watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I thought you’d like it._

Alex turns the letter over and taped to the back is a 3.5” x 4.25” Polaroid of Kara, dramatically performing _Pure Imagination_. Her face is ebullient, beaming so that her cheeks crease beneath her eyes and her glasses ride up her nose, and her bliss radiates from the rectangular film. The image displays only her upper body, facing away from the TV where Willy Wonka croons, and she looks beyond the lens at her friend with adoration.

_I’m talking a lot about myself so I’ll stop now, but I don’t want you to worry. I’m okay. You’re doing what you can by keeping yourself safe, that is the most important. Maggie seems really cool, too, though I think she hates me a little bit. I was… less than gentle when I dropped her off. She was asking about you while she was loopy from the surgery, if you were okay, if Cadmus found you. I’m really happy you have two people fussing over you now, I already have two full-time jobs :-)_

_I love you so much,_

_Kara_

 

Maggie and Alex pocket their second and third letters, respectively, when Officer Coulter clears her throat. “I cannot deliver a reply, but I will send them your regards. Unless you need anything else...?”

Grateful nods from the two girls relieve the visiting officer of her duty and she ducks out of the room to chat with Mallory.

“’You okay?” Alex quietly inquires of a catatonic Maggie, after a moment of respite.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” Aware that her affirmation was not as convincing as she’d hoped, she smiles pithily with an assured nod. “I just miss it.”

Alex stands from the chair and spins 180º to sit next to Maggie on the bed. Touch softer than a whisper spreads over Maggie’s shoulder and draws her near, nearer, until her hair reaches the agent’s awaiting lips. She plants a gentle kiss upon the detective’s head as she sinks into Alex’s touch.

“Me too, Mags.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry for the delay, school is kicking my ass and i'm a little unsure of where i'm taking this... i will probably find a way to get them home and wrap it up in 3-5 chapters, but who knows. also hoping to pump out another chapter in the next two weeks, hopefully a little more maggie-centric because it's been all about alex for so long
> 
> i don't really love this chapter but i wanted to post something to get this plot point out of the way and also break my radio silence. thank you for your patience

“Wait. Supergirl was here?” Alex sits bolt upright. Maggie stirs and groggily turns toward her with a groan. “Supergirl. She was here. She brought you here?”

“What time is it, Danvers, Jesus.” Maggie drags the blanket with her as she strains to see the analog clock on the opposing wall, which reads 04:53. The low rumble of her voice makes her words sound like a soft hum. “Yeah, she did, why?”

“I got here not even ten minutes after you did.”

Maggie squints with a confused smirk. “Mmhm.”

“I missed her by _ten minutes?_ ”

“Mmhm.”

“Ten minutes? _Ten_.”

“Between eleven and nine,” Maggie tiredly confirms, “forgot you were a super-fan. Hey, that’s funny, because _super…_ ”

“Brat.”

“Mm, shut up, Danvers,” mumbles Maggie as she pulls Alex back down into the bed. Maggie had been having nightmares - reliving the crash and flashes of the trauma that ultimately led her here into Alex’s care, both medically and romantically - so the ever-chivalrous doctor/agent/scientist/girlfriend had relented and crawled under the covers beside her to whisper sweet nothings until her breath evened out. On this particular night, once the paradoxically vulnerable warrior had fallen back to sleep, Alex’s arm was conveniently pinned beneath Maggie’s resting frame; she saw this as reason enough to hold the detective close until Alex, too, had succumbed to sleep. She had been periodically waking up in a panic to make sure she hadn’t adjusted, that her parasomnia hadn’t hurt Maggie, and each time found only peaceful snores; it had only dawned on her minutes ago as she looked upon Maggie’s cheeks, slightly flushed from the warmth of the quilt and of Alex’s body heat, that Kara had brought her here. 

Her heart yearns for her sister. In hindsight it makes sense: of course they flew here, if Maggie had been spotted and trailed the last time she’d tried to leave National City then Cadmus likely has sentries along all the northward routes. On top of that she’d been defenseless, and even an armoured car would have been no match for the xenophobic organization’s expanding arsenal.

Alex reads the final paragraph of Kara’s letter twice more. She does not realize she is crying until a teardrop breaks free from its rivulet and splashes on her chest, just below her collar bone. The paper slips off of the bed as she moves to cover her face with her hand. Her torso contracts with a silent sob as she sinks down onto the pillow. Tears flow unobstructed now and she tries to wipe them before new ones appear; Maggie turns in the bed and when her arm drapes over the agent’s hyperventilating frame, she presses up with one hand in concern.

“What is it, Danvers? Are you okay?”

Alex dejectedly crosses her legs to make room for Maggie to shift weight, then swipes the length of her index finger beneath her eyes to regain composure. “I’m fine, it’s okay, I’m sorry to wake you, Maggie…”

“Hey, hey, look at me sweetie,” whispers Maggie, as she gently stills Alex’s hands. Her weeping is silent but steady, and Maggie dips her head to meet Alex’s averted gaze. She relishes the small smile that tugs at Alex’s lips when she does so. “You don’t have to tell me, but you don’t have to hide it, okay? I’m with you. I’m with you, I promise.”

Alex nods through her tears. “I just – I miss my sister,” she mumbles in response, looking down at her lap.

“That’s her letter there, huh,” Maggie murmurs as she nods toward the floor where it lay face down, the plastic back of the Polaroid glinting in what little moonlight manages to creep past the curtain.

“Yeah. Mags, go back to sleep, you need the rest…” She brushes off Maggie’s concerned attempts to comfort her as she has her whole life, and firmly concentrates on curtailing her involuntary lacrimal secretion. This is exactly how she does it: by medicalizing it, focusing on the tangible to avoid the enigmatic. Alex expects her to give up, or get frustrated, or both, but she just stares and changes her demeanor with a sad look in her eyes.

“What do you need, Alex?”

So much for avoiding the enigmatic.

She is caught off guard by the simple question. Her initial thought is _nothing, don’t worry, get some sleep,_ but she knows that those aren’t healthy thoughts; even if it’s what she wants, even if it’s what her brain is screaming at her. It’s telling her not to bother because she can’t disclose Kara’s identity anyway, and that it is embarrassing enough to be crying. It rationalizes that there is nothing either of them can do to fix the situation, so there is no point in making herself seem weaker.

“I – I don’t know,” she admits quietly, no longer crying but still burdened by the mess of chemicals firing in her brain. _No, I’m doing it again, answer the question!_ “I want to talk about it, but… I can’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’,” presses Maggie ever-so gently, inviting without compelling her to speak.

Alex picks the letter up from the floor, detaches the Polaroid, and tri-folds her sister’s words to place back into the envelope. Maggie watches her literally fold up her feelings and tuck them within a fake phone bill.

“I can’t even tell you why I can’t tell you,” Alex discloses with a dry smirk that more closely resembles a wince.

“Alex, I don’t know what that means –” Maggie cuts herself off when she catches a glimpse of the photo Alex turns over between her thumb and index finger. “Oh. Oh, honey, oh my god, of course.”

Alex tilts her head in confusion.

“It’s Kara. She’s - Supergirl is your sister. God, how could I not notice,” says Maggie in one breath as she holds the agent into her chest. “Alex, you are so perfect…”

“What?”

She pulls back to frame Alex’s face with her hands. “You are perfect. You talked about, growing up, having to protect her and – that’s why you’re DEO, isn’t it? To protect her?”

A bewildered nod.

“And you haven’t seen her since… since, and she missed you by ten minutes.”

Another nod. When she falls upon her next point, Maggie slowly pulls away.

“… and I’ve seen both of them, your boss and your sister, and you feel guilty for being jealous, given the circumstances.”

Though her mouth falls open to protest, Alex forms no words. Maggie nods and purses her lips.

“It’s okay to feel that way, Alex,” she whispers, “and anything else you’re feeling, I want you to tell me. You can trust me, I can keep a secret – hell, I kept a pretty big one for fourteen years – but I can’t keep guessing, okay? We’re in this together. I got your back, but I can't do much if you’re not telling me the whole truth.”

Mattress springs groan as Alex shifts her weight. She nods once more, then looks Maggie in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Maggie ducks her head and half-smiles. “I’m willing to be patient with a lot because you’re new to, y’know, _this_ , but the whole self-sacrificial resolve thing hurts me too. You can tell me anything. I would never judge you and even though it might feel like you’re sparing me, what we have here is a two-way street: I can’t trust you if you can’t trust me.”

For a few moments of soft eye contact neither speaks, as they sit cross-legged on the bed at five in the morning. Wind and waking birds softly make their presence heard from outside, led by the sliver of sun gliding over the horizon to illuminate the room with a blue tint. Through thick bedroom walls they hear a phone chime, and Maggie stifles a yawn.

“Sweetheart you need to rest,” Alex whispers, and the stubborn detective begins to soften.

“Can we play a game first?” asks Maggie in a small voice. “I won’t get much sleep anyway.”

Alex pulls her in and kisses her forehead. “Alright, Mags. And – and thank you,” she replies, intentionally vague and all-encompassing. “You’re right, and, just… thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i diverged a bit w/ maggie's reaction because a. she deserves to be trusted and told things, b. alex deserves the praise for literally devoting her life to kara, and c. in canon maggie was always the catalyst for alex's development; other than 217 & 303 they didnt really show alex supporting maggie (and even then alex either left or was misguided/being a little selfish, however well-intended) and i just have issues with the way they made maggie so expendable/didnt give her room to assert & grow & need things
> 
> probably more actual movement will happen in following chapters because im getting bored and this is all about me, it's my world, you're just living in it (im kidding i will sell a kidney for you please tell me what you want to see i thrive off of constructive criticism)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooolyyyy shit this one's long. there's a lot going on. not what i expected when i first sat down to write it. not sure how i feel about it. a little bit of spice at the beginning and then a very different kind of spice. it's a spicy one

The note slips through the sliver of open window while Alex is in the kitchen.

Most of the previous week had been routine, uneventful, and almost mundane. Caleb went to school, Mallory went to work, and Dante took Aaron to the park or grocery shopping or to the Gymboree. Alex puttered around the house in search of chores and Maggie called her back with as many excuses as she could plausibly conjure; _my back hurts, I’m lonely, are we gonna finish this game or do you forfeit_ , of which the latter was most effective. Alex told her about J’onn, her family, life in Midvale, and everything in between. Maggie disclosed her father’s abuse and her aunt’s reluctant hospitality.

_“She knew, but we didn’t talk about it,” she’d explained, a somber, cloudy anger brewing behind her eyes. “I honestly think Mackenzie’s begging is the only reason they took me in. She was Catholic, and I knew what she thought about it, about me... so I got the hell out of there. I got the hell out of there at seventeen and joined the academy, swore I’d do whatever I could to keep that from happening to anyone else ever again.”_

_Alex had remained stolid despite her sparking rage. “She’s wrong. They’re all wrong. I know you know that already, but... you are the best thing to come out of that town, Mags, I promise you.”_

Maggie only began to cry when she mentioned the LGBTQ+ youth centre she’d co-founded in Gotham. The second letter that Coulter had brought was a collection of notes, well-wishes, and artwork from queer adolescents she had worked with; in her four years of volunteering there she had helped coordinate shelters and legal counsel, facilitated sexual health seminars, and provided a safe space for closeted and out young people alike, all for free. She left a piece of her heart with those kids and in Gotham, the first place she really called home, when she was reassigned for her promotion to detective.

Her headaches and concussion symptoms had grown fewer and further between until she was finally cleared for light activity. This was good news for Maggie, who’d grown restless and horny; out of respect for the Ebdus home they did not turn into wild sex freaks, but Alex’s first proper orgasm was exquisite.

_“You just have to promise you’ll be quiet, okay? And if at any time you aren’t comfortable with something or you want to stop, just tap me twice with your hand.”_

_“Like in jiu jitsu,” replied Alex. Maggie grinned._

_“Sure, like in jiu jitsu.”_

_“And you promise to tell me if anything starts to hurt you. I just want to learn how to make you feel good, Mags.”_

_“I promise,” Maggie said quietly. “You’re sure?”_

_“Completely.”_

_Maggie planted her left heel on the mattress and bent her knee so that Alex, whose lips pressed soft kisses on Maggie’s neck, could have more friction. The second she positioned Maggie’s leg between hers she gasped, swallowing a moan, and Maggie chided her._

_“Shh, sweetie, Aaron’s napping,” she forcefully whispered. Alex nodded sheepishly before she guided Maggie’s hands to her hips and introduced a slow rhythm. The sharp cold of Maggie’s titanium cast against an inch of skin exposed by her ridden-up shirt made her hiss, letting her head fall back with pleasure. Her eyes shut as she rocked back and forth against Maggie’s denim-clad thigh and she reburied her face in the flustered detective’s neck to keep from making noise. She then slipped one of her own legs between her girlfriend’s and relished the hum that resonated against her lips on Maggie’s pulse point._

_She picked up speed and it was Maggie who had trouble being quiet; Alex had to clamp a hand over her mouth, at which the detective’s eyes nearly rolled back in ecstasy. When Alex’s movements became ragged and her approaching climax was clear, Maggie pulled her in for a perfectly-timed kiss. She whined into Maggie’s open mouth as she hit the edge, bracing herself with both forearms on the pillows around Maggie’s head so she could grasp the long brunette strands splayed upon them. Maggie fell into a soft orgasm of her own as Alex came back to earth, enthusiastically reciprocating the kiss._

_“Oh god,” she had said, breathlessly. Maggie sobered immediately._

_“Are you okay? Was that too much, is –”_

_“No, it’s… I just came faster than a teenage boy in his dad’s pickup.” Alex laughed as she covered her face with her hands. Maggie exhaled with relief and snickered too, then pushed a section of Alex’s short hair behind her ear._

_“I was gonna say ‘that only looks good on me’, but you did most of the work,” she quipped, pulling Alex back down so they could face each other on the bed._

Maggie had joined the rest of the group that Wednesday at Caleb’s soccer game. In the two days since then she even kicked the ball around with him in the backyard a few times, an overdue upgrade. Things had finally begun to settle for the two of them, for the six of them.

So when the wrinkled paper falls through the window, Maggie’s blood runs cold.

By force of habit she paws for her gun on the nightstand. When she finds only the alarm clock and an empty glass, she reaches into her sock to draw a Swiss army knife. She is steeled for battle as she creeps toward the window and slowly retrieves the crumpled note from the carpet. Folded, it is no larger than her palm, college-ruled, ripped near its margins, and written on with a heavy hand. Her pulse throbs at the top of her head, as if her adrenaline-induced tachycardia had caused blood to blindly slam into skull in its rush to oxygenate her brain.

Trembling fingers unfold the page until two lines of writing appear.

 

**THEY KNOW YOU’RE HERE.**

**GET HER OUT BEFORE MIDNIGHT.**

 

“What th –” Maggie frantically shoves the letter into the side pocket of her cargo pants when she hears soft footsteps.

“I made snacks, babe,” Alex says lightly, leaning in from the doorframe. She delicately rests her hand against it and steps in when she notices the masked panic on Maggie’s face. “’Everything okay? Are you in pain?”

Maggie looks down and then back up, almost robotically, and brings her left hand to her lip before re-establishing eye contact. “Yeah, I’m fine, I – uh – just a headache, stood up too fast I guess.”

Alex eyes her skeptically. “Do you need me to get you anything? I could bring the food in here if you want –”

“It’s fine, Alex.”

Maggie’s curt reply caught them both off guard. She softens right away and exasperatedly apologizes for her tone, but Alex remains conflicted. After a few seconds of careful thought, she decides to just ask.

“Do you regret letting me… letting us… this?” Her voice is small as she gestures between herself and Maggie, sleeves pulled all the way over her knuckles.

“What? Oh God no, Alex, sweetheart, of course not.” Maggie shakes from the stupor and strides toward her. She takes both of Alex’s hands in hers. “No, never. What makes you say that?”

“I just, I realized that I put you in kind of an awkward position when I told you and I thought maybe I abused my power, not that I have power over you just that, y’know, the medical stuff, and it’s totally okay if you don’t have feelings for me, I won’t take it personally, I -” The vulnerability in Alex’s doe eyes matches that of their first kiss. It makes Maggie’s heart ache as they stand in silence. “Usually people interrupt me when I’m rambling, sorry.”

“Did you want me to interrupt you?”

Alex pauses. “I, uh, I don’t know. I’m finished now, though,” she replies.

Maggie takes a deep breath and releases Alex’s hands in favour of her own elbows. She _hates_ lying, almost as much as she hates being lied to. “That's not it at all, Alex, I promise. I am absolutely crazy about you, I, uh… I’m just getting a little antsy, cooped up in the house all day. I didn’t want you to worry so I didn’t say anything, but I was wondering if I could maybe go for a run, or a walk if running is too much? I just… need to _do_ something.”

“Of course, Mags, we can go for a run in a bit, I just need to finish up the dishes and stuff,” says Alex after an exhale of relief. Maggie begins to squirm.

“Sweetheart, I – don’t get me wrong, Alex, I absolutely love spending time with you and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be with here, but, I... I meant by myself.”

She wrings her hands together and observes Alex vigilantly.

“Oh. Oh, um,” mumbles Alex, nodding too much, as her harsh self-judgment takes the reins. _She meant by herself, idiot, why would she want to go for a run with you, you’re smothering her, she’s felt smothered this whole time, what else are you doing wrong, you should have known, she shouldn’t be afraid to ask you things, she shouldn’t have to ask, you are a terrible doctor, you are a terrible girlfriend, you are terrible, there is no excuse for being this way, you are selfish. You are a failure. You have failed._

“You didn’t do anything wrong Alex,” Maggie quickly corrects, and the thick lie she’s weaving makes her want to vomit. She reminds herself that it’s for Alex, that it’s all for Alex; Maggie has eight and a half hours to get the unsuspecting agent out of there, and they are going to need somewhere to go. “You’re – you’re perfect, okay, perfect. I just need to get some air, feel like myself again, y’know? I’m sorry, it’s totally okay if the answer is no, I know I’m not cleared yet…”

“No, it’s fine, Maggie,” Alex assures with a sigh, “go. Of course. Have fun.” She smiles weakly and Maggie reciprocates.

The clock on the wall ticks faintly to fill the silence. Mallory should be home with Caleb in about twenty minutes and Maggie wants to be back before they arrive, so she pecks Alex’s cheek and catches her eye.

“Thank you, Danvers.”

Alex nods and looks down at her hands. “Just be safe, okay? Don’t go too far.”

“I will, and I won’t.” Maggie cracks a goofy smile and kisses the redhead’s nose.

Ah, the double entendre.

 

The frigid draft that hits her nylon-clad skin suits the impending February. Alex had insisted that Maggie wear a thermal shirt and vest beneath her windbreaker, as well as a fleece headband beneath her high ponytail to cover her ears. New Balance running shoes, though kind of dorky-looking and a half-size too big, better suit her purpose than her own Adidas Gazelles so she slips Mal’s pair on and lets her other foot dangle over the edge of the front porch.

She hops down and stretches her legs, reviewing the game plan in her head. First she would go for an actual run: though she had not been entirely forthcoming in her talk with Alex, the cabin fever is _very_ real. She had strategically settled on sprints in the school yard to stay in plain sight of Alex’s window. Second, however, she would jog out of view to the main strip in town, home most notably to a family-owned department store that sells weapons and ammunition. She cannot buy any of either without ID and hopes not to need them, but locating the nearest supply and weak spots in the store’s security after hours could save their lives. There she will purchase a burner phone, trail mix, first-aid kit, two plastic containers to hold Alex’s _proper_ first-aid kit, two backpacks, and a whistle; they have sweaters and flashlights already and can bring those when they leave. She figures she’ll have five minutes to do so, ten tops, before Alex gets nervous, so her final task is to stow the items in a decommissioned newspaper stand in the parking lot. She will then head back to the Ebdus residence with both bags.

She has delayed informing Alex because she knows the agent will insist on fighting back. Maggie cannot quite tell if the woman has a death wish or just _is that good_ , but the cards are so stacked against them that she knows they will not win. Unarmed, injured, and without backup, they are as good as bait to the Cadmus troops.

Sharp wind whips against her face, picking up speed as she does, and she can feel the acute warmth in her legs as they pump back and forth. An involuntary grin paints her lips as she runs against the breeze so cold it’s hot and by the end of her tenth sprint down the track, she breaks a light sweat. She slows and wipes it with her forearm before interlocking her fingers behind her head, looking skyward, catching sips of the thin, dry air.

Alex is watching. She knows Alex is watching even if she can’t see her silhouette through the chain-link fence, peeking out their small window. Maggie offers a thumbs-up above her head as she walks away, but does not look back before she ducks out of sight.

She carries out her mission quickly. Concealed by brick and mortar, Maggie breaks into a run and reaches the strip mall in record time. The selection of cheap earbuds by the door upon arrival gives her an idea. She quietly breaks the seal on a pair, places the speakers in both ears, then tucks the audio jack into her waistband; this appears to be plugged into a device and effectively shields her from unwanted attention. Two middle-aged women who also roam the aisles barely notice Maggie as she dashes around them, collecting this and that, holding all of it in her arms. Behind this mound of gear she looks comically small, but she does not struggle to carry it. The many times-wrinkled and smoothed face of Ulysses S. Grant covers the cost of her pile and when the clerk eyes her purchases with suspect, she nonchalantly adds a pack of gum from beneath the counter.

“Two twenty-seven is your change, have a nice day,” says the catatonic cashier. Had he not blinked, one might think the miserable adolescent was dead.

“Likewise.” Maggie smiles innocently in reply and hurriedly hoists the two plastic bags with ease.

Once the drop is made, she checks her watch. Her errand had taken just under eight minutes total. Much to her chagrin and despite her best attempt to flatten them, one stuffed inside the other, the packs are immediately noticeable against her back beneath the zipped windbreaker. She opens her jacket and hopes that the flapping wind will hide them long enough to stash them by the bedroom window before re-entering the house.

Aching in her ribs from laboured breathing forces her to lax into a light jog as she turns the corner into plain view. She was not prepared for the sight that awaited her.

A black van, similar to that which had trailed her weeks ago, idles outside the schoolyard. All she can see in the driver’s side mirror from a hundred yards away is a man with dark hair and five-o’clock shadow.

Maggie ducks behind a large plastic tub of road salt before she can be seen. She checks her watch again, 15:49, and formulates another game plan.

School had let out at 14:50. If she could just get in through the front doors, she could exit with the backpack on and hood up. Her stature would be an asset if she could pass as a child leaving detention or, at least, appear harmless.

The entryway is sparsely populated and she is able to duck in unnoticed when a staff member leaves, gabbing animatedly into a Bluetooth device. Maggie sticks to the basement and removes the backpack as she goes, then fluffs it to appear full when she reaches the back doors. With a steely breath and adjustment of her jacket, she steps out with her veiled head down.

Every footfall is calculated. She walks with a slight slouch, occasionally kicks stray ice chunks and loose gravel, and avoids eye contact with the van’s occupant. She prays hopefully that there is only the driver, though she knows that that hope is naïve. The frosted field crunches under her feet and secretes mud in some places where the fluctuating weather had caused the icy ground to thaw and then refreeze. It squelches up to coat the stark white shoes with orangey-brown sludge and she makes a preemptive apology to Mal in her head.

The scene could seem placid to passersby, though there are none; they have no audience, but also no witnesses. Maggie releases a strained exhale once she passes perpendicular to the van as now the driver can only see the hooded back of her head. She hops over a snowbank onto busted concrete slates and about halfway through her bated walk she sees Alex’s head bob up from beneath the windowpane, confused alarm in her face evident even sixty yards out. Maggie holds her gaze, then flits briefly to her right in the direction of the impending threat. Non-verbal communication is familiar to both of them so Alex disappears after a quick nod, presumably to prepare for whatever danger they might encounter.

As soon as she turns the corner onto the Ebdus’ street she hits a full sprint, backpack slung over one shoulder, and does not stop until Alex presses the front door shut behind her.

“Maggie, what the hell happened,” she demands, her tone almost alarmingly cool.

“Pack up. We gotta go, now.” Maggie grimaces and wheezes as she curls into herself, cradling her ribs. She slips the backpack off and hands it to Alex. “Get the meds, emergency stuff, some clothes.”

“ _What_ is going _on_?”

“They’re here, Alex.”

Her face pales. She springs into action right away.

Within minutes she is field-ready. The family still has not yet arrived so Alex scribbles a quick note thanking them for their hospitality, instructing them to comply with and repeatedly inform Cadmus troops, should they arrive, that she and Maggie are not present, and to keep Caleb and Aaron out of sight. She feels sick to her stomach at the idea of leaving innocent civilians - civilians of colour especially - at the mercy of an organization notorious for showing no mercy, but they really have no other choice. There is a very real chance that she and Maggie too will die if it comes to a violent stand-off. She smacks two twenty-dollar bills next to it on the coffee table, then draws a few candies from her pocket for the kids.

“Wait a minute, Danvers, where the hell did you get that?” Maggie gestures to the glock on Alex’s right hip.

“What, you thought I’d trust Witness Protection against _Cadmus_? Please.” Alex reaches into her bag with a strained snicker and presses a considerably larger assault rifle with a silencer into a stunned Maggie’s hands.

“You’re fun,” she responds through a half-smirk, still slightly out of breath.

“Damn right.”

 

The porch creaks under an exceptionally obstreperous gust of wind, from which Maggie and Alex are shielded by a wooden overhang. It is not particularly spacious nor comfortable underneath the cedar planks that hold up their front patio, and had been difficult to discreetly crawl into. They lay out on their fronts like snipers and Alex occasionally surveys the area through a hole in the wood. Maggie does her best to remain completely still so as not to further aggravate her sore ribs and takes this time to quietly brig Alex up to speed.

“And while I was gone, when you couldn’t see me, that’s when I got all the stuff from the department store,” she whispers, “and left it in a newspaper stand in the parking lot. The note said midnight so I was hoping it’d be dark enough to sneak out, but… here we are.”

Alex nods silently. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, deep in thought. “The note, it said ‘get her out by midnight,’ right?”

“Mmhm.” Maggie grunts and wiggles as her good hand maneuvers beneath her body. The paper had ripped in two places during the frenzy, but Maggie draws what’s left of it from the pocket of the pants she’d changed back into. “Short and sweet.”

She hands the page to Alex and pokes her head up for a turn surveilling the street.

“How do you know they’re not talking about you?”

Maggie cranes her neck at an awkward angle to face Alex, nearly head-butting the agent in the process. “Huh?”

“It just says ‘her’. It’s not addressed, so that could be either of us.” Maggie scrunches up her face in condescension, as if the answer is obvious.

“’Only reason I’m wanted is as an accessory. I’m – I’m the basket of bread they give you at restaurants, before your food is cooked. Like, I’ll take it if it’s there, but it’s not why I came.”

“You’re hungry, huh,” Alex mumbles through a smirk.

“Am I wrong?” The detective’s challenge shuts her up. “And yeah, I was promised snacks but _you_ didn’t bring them. So whose fault is that, really?”

“Slow your roll, sarcastic lesbian,” responds Alex.

“’Sarcastic lesbian,’ mm? Nice comeback.”

Alex turns to her with a shit-eating grin. “Am I wrong?”

Maggie squints at her in stunned silence. She shuts her jaw once she realizes it is open and quirks an eyebrow, a smoldering dare in her eyes. Alex follows suit.

“I am… _so_ attracted to you right now,” she replies, and Alex lets her head fall back with laughter.

Before she can reply, they hear the sound of tires skipping the curb and switch into high alert. Maggie had insisted that they not go out guns a’ blazin’, that weapons are a last resort and only present to help them escape. The fight against Cadmus has been a series of _lose the battle win the war_ reconciliations on the DEO’s part so even if, by some slim chance, she and Alex actually won this one it would not even be a thorn in Lillian Luthor’s side. Their objective is to get out as alive as possible.

The street is silent. Every discernible sound hits Maggie’s ears at once and threatens to overload her senses as she combats a rising panic, so she uses it to sharpen her senses. Whistling wind, the revving of an engine in need of an oil change, thrumming heartbeats in her and Alex’s chests, the sound of crunching gravel, Alex army-crawling out to the lawn –

“Danvers!” Alex doesn’t respond to the urgent whisper. She pushes up the pliant wood and begins to slide beneath it when Maggie grabs her foot. “What the _hell_ are you doing? Get back here!”

Maybe she does have a death wish, Maggie thinks, because Alex shakes free and pulls herself through headfirst into plain sight. Maggie panics now and thrashes sideways to grab the gun. She pierces the overhang just beneath the pre-existing lookout in the form of an X with her knife, then shoves the barrel of the rifle through like a straw in a fountain drink. In the time it took to ready the gun and aim at the moving van, Alex has sprinted toward it and into the line of fire. Maggie cannot get a clean shot, so she shoots its front tires in two quick movements. The driver brakes quickly and comes to a jarring halt a few houses down, but Alex has almost reached its driver’s side door.

“Shit!” Maggie scrambles to follow and mumbles curse words as she goes. She endures several splinters trying to peel back the wood and eventually spins 180º on her back to kick it down. Her injured ribs violently throb but she pays them no mind as she sprints toward the foolhardy agent, who now stands still beside the vehicle. Maggie draws the gun again and cocks it.

Alex’s hands and pistol rest at her side. The driver appears to be similarly entranced, and Maggie continues to dash toward them on high alert. Puffs of air expel from Alex’s lips and vanish from their translucent cloud. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Maggie reaches them, breathless and confounded, until Alex slices through the silence.

“Dad?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaat
> 
> listen. i had to get them home somehow so her dad is gonna drive them. homosexual tension will likely ensue, stay tuned. and then he'll help stop cadmus because i have more classes this semester and need to get my shit together instead of wallowing in this au.  
> oh jeremiah is good in this one he was still missing for fifteen years but like they can trust him it's fine
> 
> also i laughed so fucking hard writing the "am i wrong" exchange like GOD i LOVE hilarious gays


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